Elba
by WolfAtSea
Summary: [AU to the final battle and beyond] Utterly defeated and way past pride, Voldemort plots his own death – and fails miserably as Harry Potter remains his all but immortal human horcrux. For his own sanity, Harry takes his disgraced enemy on a self-imposed exile on an island across the sea, where the former Dark Lord ponders history and the Boy-Who-Wouldn't-Die learns how to live.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Harry Potter series.**

 **A/N: This story deviates from canon at exactly the same point as my other HP pic, _About A Boy_ , but will evolve into something quite different. **

**Note on title: Elba is the name of the island where Napoleon Bonaparte went on his 300-day exile after losing the French throne in 1814. You'll see how this connects to the story soon :)**

 **Enjoy and please leave a review to let me know how you think! And now onto the Final Battle ...**

* * *

For the second time that day, Harry Potter wakes up to an all-encompassing, almost suffocating whiteness. As expected, he looks down and finds himself in his birthday suit. Think of clothes. Done. Dignity managed. He gets up and surveys the now familiar surroundings. King's Cross but not quite King's Cross. Eerie silence. Bench. Ugly, wailing infant under the bench. Great.

Just fuckin' _great_.

"What do you think this all means, sir?" Harry asks his twinkly-eyed headmaster, who's just appeared out of seemingly nowhere, same as s last time. Except that the old man's sky blue eyes aren't really twinkling at the moment. If anything, Harry would go so far as to say that Albus Dumbledore looks right shocked. Flabbergasted, even.

"Professor?"

"Harry… this is, well, not unexpected." Dumbledore starts, a little hesitantly. "I'm sorry if I led you to arrive at premature conclusions. I guess, it was … wishful thinking on my part."

At that reply, Harry feels something in him suddenly snap. "Wishful – so you knew all along? That I'm still – that he – _God_!" Harry knows he should probably calm down and get as many answers as possible, but he's now vaguely aware of a tugging sensation – it's most unsettling. "And you think this – " He gestures towards the depressing whiteness all around them. " – this would happen every time he or I –"

"Harry…"

"I won, professor." Harry presses on, now relatively level-headed. "I… Voldemort should by all means be dead right now; his own killing curse rebounded because I'm the true master of the Elder Wand. And his piece of soul in me was supposed to have bloody _died_ , wasn't it? That's all that I was supposed to figure out – on my own, I might add – right?"

"Soul magic, Harry, works in mysterious ways. No one has truly mastered it, and despite what Tom might claim, he has only scratched the surface, leading only to his own downfall."

"He's made a fool out of himself, isn't that it? Him destroying his own last horcrux unknowingly?" Harry can't help but raise his voice again. "I thought it was supposed to be ironic – freaking _poetic justice_ or whatnot. I made that whole speech on how it was just him and me with no horcruxes left too! But of course Avada Cadevra is not the same as a basilisk's fang! Should've know, shouldn't I? And now that jokes on me!"

"No, it's not a joke, and certainly not a joke on you, Harry. All is not how it seems, but everything may take a turn for the better yet."

Harry stops his pacing and stares at the old man. _What does that even mean?_ Afterlife must be grating on one's ability to communicate clearly with us mortals, Harry thinks wryly. "Professor, last time, you said that I had a choice. And I made my choice, although … well." The tugging is getting stronger by the second, as if something's trying to drag him out of here. Probably back to the land of the living. A living hell.

When he speaks again, his voice is calm and steady. "If I choose to pass on now, sir, will Voldemort perish with me?"

Dumbledore looks at him for a long moment. "Harry, my dear boy…"

"But I don't really have a choice this time, do I?" Harry cuts his old headmaster off yet again. The tugging is nearly unbearable now; his own voice sounds oddly far away. Harry gathers he doesn't have much time.

"If I did have a choice though, I'd still make the same one, this time _and_ the next. I have too much to lose, even now; I've too much I haven't done. Does that make me a terrible person, I wonder? For being too selfish to rid the world of such evil?" Dumbledore begins to say something but Harry doesn't give him the chance. No time to lose.

"Say hello to my parents and Sirius for me, will you, Headmaster? You do see them, right?" Harry can hardly make out Dumbledore's face anymore, with the white haze closing in. The painful cries of the infant have faded into nothingness at some point along the way. "And Remus and Fred and Tonks and ... and everyone else. But now I have to go back…"

And goes back he does. Even through the thick fogginess Harry swears he could see Dumbledore smile reassuringly, his blue eyes twinkling again. But that could just be a trick of the mind; Merlin knows that he's had plenty of those recently. Harry closes his eyes and lets the whiteness engulf him, taking him far, far away.

Then he opens his eyes to skull splitting plain originating from his scar. Did his scar hurt before, when he and Voldemort were circling each other like two rabid alpha wolves? He can't recall. It could have hurt, but he was so pumped up on adrenaline that he couldn't feel anything other than his magic and nervous energy coursing through his veins. But now his head is exploding. Hot tears streak down his cheeks and he doesn't even attempt to hold them in. it's darn hard to see through the tears and the pain, but the sight before him is incredible.

Where Voldemort fell, there is now a huge swirl of dark smoke hovering about a feet above the ground, twisting, changing, slowly morphing into a human-like shape. It looks like, Harry suddenly realizes, it looks exactly like the ritual he witnessed that fateful night in the Little Hangleton graveyard, when his greatest enemy rose again using his own blood. But this time, there is no fire, no cauldron, no snivelling rat cutting off his hand for his master. So what on earth is going on?

Along with all those present to bear witness to the Final Battle, Harry is rooted to the spot and watches, with equal parts dread and fascination, the smoke gradually settle on the ground, revealing a skeletal figure crouched in a foetal position, pale as death. Harry is overrun with the most unpleasant sense of déjà vu until he realizes, with a start, that this figure has … _hair_ on its skull. Medium length, dark brown hair, wet and all messy. And instead of drawing up to its full menacing height like what happened in the graveyard, the figure simply slumps to the ground, unmoving.

And his scar doesn't hurt anymore.

Harry blinks hard, wiping at his eyes absent-mindedly. The world is in focus again. Very carefully, he takes two steps towards the figure on the ground, then two more. The thin frame still doesn't move. Is Voldemort dead after all? That would be ... _ideal_ , but … Harry can now make out a very minute rise and fall of the bony chest, but he hasn't been able to trust his eyes lately. Oh hell, only one way to be sure.

The crowd around them remains stock still and dead silent. Harry kneels beside the figure and takes a good look at it. The face is unnaturally gaunt and pale, but still unmistakably belongs to one Tom Marvolo Riddle, from the diary, from the memories in Dumbledore's pensieve. In fact, the pathetic creature before him looks almost exactly like the troubled man who came into Dumbledore's office and applied for the post of DADA professor for the second time; already consumed by the darkness, but still sporting his muggle father's good looks. Still more charming than frightening.

Still _human_.

Sodding brilliant, innit? Horcruxes now serve as timestamps too?

Harry reaches out and places one hand on the side of Riddle's neck. The skin is clammy and way too cold to the touch and Harry's trying his best not to get sick. The crowd gasps and starts murmuring amongst themselves, but Harry pays them no mind. Pressing harder, he can feel a very faint pulse, slow and weak but surely there.

"Still alive, eh? Bastard …" And Harry can't help it anymore. He throws his head back and laughs. Uncontrollably, like a mad man, Harry laughs and laughs and laughs, at Voldemort's egoistic stupidity, at Dumbledore's secretiveness and good-willed manipulations, at Irony, but mostly at himself and that hopeless fool of a jokester called Fate – until tears flow freely down his cheeks once more. The soft murmur around them has risen tenfold into loud and anxious chatter. Let them have their fun – _they think the Boy-Who-Lived has finally lost it!_ Harry couldn't care less.

"Harry! Harry, what's going on?" Ron calls out frantically. "We all saw him struck down by the killing curse, and I thought, _finally_ , it was over. But then – then he just up and disappeared, turned into dust, as if, and there was this strange smoke and you were kind of zoning out there …" The red-headed young man trailed off mid-ramble, staring at his still manically gleeful friend, more than a little concerned. Ron and Hermione are the only ones with the audacity to come closer, although they're still standing a safe distance away from the body on the ground. With a flick of his want, Harry summons a school blanket to cover his fallen nemesis – not that he gives a damn about Riddle's dignity, but if the bastard does freeze to death, Harry will be subjected to another round trip to Not-King's-Cross and one hell of a headache, and that doesn't sound inviting, ever. Harry's friends seem to relax a little.

"What's going on? Well, horcruxes! Isn't it obvious?" Harry exclaims, most likely still looking and sounding pretty deranged. Horrified realization starts to dawn on Hermione's face, but she looks like she'd happily eat her wand just so her conjecture wouldn't be true. At his still confused best mate, Harry patiently prompts.

"Ron, what're the _only_ ways to destroy a horcrux?"

"Huh? Oh, well, Godric's sword, a basilisk's fang, Fiend … _Oh_. Blimey…"

"Yes, yes, the little green curse didn't stand a chance …" Harry says dismissively. Should he feel tainted again? Dirty? He has in him a piece of a mass murderer's soul, a sad little thing that knows nothing but pain, and, Merlin forbid, _will_ never know anything other than pain. And Harry will carry it around with him as long as he values life. Perhaps he should feel more disgusted at that prospect.

"So you and him … Oh Merlin …" Ron now sports a very similar expression to Hermione's.

"He and I, yes – I do believe we're supposed to live happily ever after." Harry remarks flippantly, still wearing a rather unhinged grin. Take that, Trelawney! Take that, thrice-cursed prophecy! _Neither can live my arse …_

"So, what now?" Hermione asks quietly, having finally found her voice.

 _What now, indeed?_ Harry glances down at Riddle's still form, and sighs. "Well … I've made a decision. I guess I'd better learn to live with it."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Short chapter, but Voldemort's PoV is so, so hard to write. Also stream of consciousness is this really cool thing that I've heard much about but never tried myself XD

* * *

He hasn't felt something like this in nearly twenty years, but even twenty years is way too short. A flash of green – he's never tasted fear like this before – and his world explodes in all too familiar pain. He can feel his body torn apart molecule-by-molecule and his mind dragged out in the open, beaten and vulnerable, and he's losing track of what he is. A lady is screeching in the background…

Who am I? _Tom Riddle, sir; I live in Wool's Orphanage, right downtown_ … "Abomination!" Screams Mrs. Cole. "To your room, now!" She gets the priest and the exorcists and the doctors to do all sorts of things to him, but he never changes. The kids shun him too. But no, _they_ are the unworthy. He's special, not sick; he knows it, always. I'm special … Who am I? I am Lord Voldemort, his mind supplies a different answer. Not Tom Riddle – but _why not_? He is caught up in a tornado like a rag doll, part of a cosmic tug of war that mangles every inch of sanity he has left. He doesn't belong here; what comes after doesn't want him either. Can he go home? Home … A castle - Hogwarts? But he exploded his castle … Why? Mr. Cole is always drunk. When he isn't, he tells him "Hell is for little boys like you." When he's had his daily poison, he says "Boy, I'll beat the demon out of you yet." And so he tries, until Tom hangs him … no, calls his basilisk … no, he doesn't have a wand yet … until Tom makes him fall down the stairs. Nobody caught him at it. Mr. Cole has sky blue eyes, just like his Transfigurations professor. How he hates that old coot … but perhaps he won after all?

What happened? I was killed by Harry Potter … No, wait, that was the last time. The Halloween. Was it? _The one with the power to vanquish_ … again? His memories are being mowed into shreds. If he doesn't have a body, how can his head hurt so much? A little albino snake – _Hissy_ \- with slitted red eyes comes to him and says hello, brings mice as gifts, calls him 'master' – if feels so good to be called master. The power … Longbottom kills Hissy, chops her head off with a sword … Longbottom? No, it's Billy Stubbs. And he'll pay for it; maybe not today because Billy is taller and stronger, but one day … But Billy Stubbs doesn't have a sword, he killed Hissy … with a stone. The Philosopher's Stone … I was killed by Harry Potter. Again. _I am Lord Voldemort_. Remember that. Remember, remember, because if he loses that he loses everything and turns into nothing … Pop! The Bogart disappears into thin air. Professor Irving is puzzled beyond reasoning because he doesn't understand. He doesn't understand that nothingness is much, much scarier than any monster. Scary … people are too scared to say his name. They're all afraid – why? What has he done … Myrtle's scream dies in her throat. Amy Benson doesn't make a sound either; she's too afraid. But Amy Benson has it coming. She says to her boyfriend – so _disgusting_ – "I reckon Riddle's mother was a freak too, that's why!" So Tom takes them to the cave … and Regulus Black's blasted elf screams and screams and screams…

"Repent, boy!" Father Tawny demands. But he doesn't. He knows he'll go to Hell when he dies; has known that for a long time … Why though? Another bolt of pain; he fights tooth and nail to keep his memories from turning to dust like the rest of him. He doesn't want to go to hell, so … "I will keep in good health, and try not to die." Says Jane Eyre, and Tom wholeheartedly agrees. Who on earth is Jane Eyre? … "Try for some remorse" says Harry Potter. Harry Potter? But I killed Harry Potter – why doesn't he die? And remorse? Him? Ha! He would've laughed but he didn't. Maybe deep down he _was_ scared, but dark lords don't scare … do they? But he doesn't repent, never repents, because he's going to Hell anyways – _he killed his mum_.

There is no way out. On one side there is eternal pain and on the other, there is nothingness. And he can't take the pain anymore. One moment it scorches like a dragon's breath and the next he's dumped into the Black Lake in the middle of January. If he's just a spirit, how can he feel the pain like this? But he does feel it, in every way fathomable and every way that can't be imagined by the human mind. But he took it last time, didn't he? For years and years and years. Just ride it out. But he can't, not again. Maybe he's grown weak – love is the greatest _weakness_ , Dumbledore you old fool – but anything is better than this. Just let it be over, please … He's begging, and Tom Riddle _doesn't beg_ … but – if it's over, will it be death? But even death would be better because even though in death he will be nobody - forgotten by everyone else - it is far and away better than him forgetting _himself_. He can feel his memories slipping away, consumed by flames. At this rate, he'll forget who he is soon enough. And he doesn't _want_ to forget who he is … _I'm special_ , he repeats to himself like a mantra, but really soon he won't be able to believe that anymore. In the background, Mrs. Cole is still bellowing "Abomination!" and it's getting louder by the second.

When eventually he slams into something solid, the darkness is blissful.


	3. Chapter 3

Is this what death feels like? Is this Hell? Having accepted that he would never go to Heaven since some seventy odd years ago, he has imagined scenario upon scenario of what the inferno for the damned would feel like, but to tell the truth, he still has no idea. If this is Hell, why is it so damn cold? As cold as the deepest darkness of the Albanian forests in which he was once forced to hide in the dead of winter, latching onto a dying serpent like some parasite. It would be fitting, Voldemort supposes – eternal torture for all his _evil_ deeds, him living through all his most humiliating and helpless moments.

But wait. Feeling the coldness means that he's no longer a bodiless shade, no longer in that nightmare he had to endure for some thirteen years. He's ecstatic. Concentrating very hard, he finds that all his limbs are numb beyond his brain's control, but as surely as the earth turns he can feel the cool air that he breathes and the cold, smooth surface under his skin. Everything hurts, but this is a different kind of pain. Every bolt of sweet suffering reminds him that he still has nerves that are twitching, blood that is pumping through his veins. And he wouldn't ask for anything more.

A sudden warmth comes into contact with his neck, and a jolt of contentment flashes through his brain. "Still alive, eh? Bastard …" An oddly familiar voice.

 _Alive?_ He's not dead, after all? Not in Hell, not in the horrid nothingness. He would laugh if he could. But since he has little energy to spare, he settles for savouring the luscious moment silently. And he can hear too! Someone is laughing nearby. Every little sound that he perceives is like music to his ears. All these senses, sweet senses … Earthly. Real. Alive. He cannot be happier. Whatever comes next, he'll find a way. At the end of the day, he _always_ does … And as the warm presence is cruelly removed from his skin, he lets his mind slip into pleasant darkness once more.

* * *

The Golden Trio is seated comfortably in a relatively secluded corner in a second-floor ballroom, situated in a wing unmarred from the previous night's struggles. All around them, there is supposed to be a party going on – a party out of all things a little more than an hour after the fighting ended! Harry thinks rather bitterly, gruesome scenes and the smell of death still all too vivid in his mind. Even so, he can't say no to the food for he honestly can't recall the last time he ate properly. A long table has been set up in the centre of the ballroom, and a few minutes ago, a mouth watering breakfast buffet consisting of mountains of classic Hogwarts goodies magically appeared, to the delight of famished students and veterans alike. How the Hogwarts elves managed to switch seamlessly from warrior mode to kitchen mode, Harry has no clue, but he has to be grateful for whatever ancient magic the elves possess. Delicious food complimented by carefree laughter, relieved weeping, as well as numerous gadgets from Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, the celebrations that started out tentative are now in full swing. A considerable number of wizards and witches have come up to Harry to thank or to congratulate him, but the right words are hard to come by and the majority of these exchanges have ended up either sweetly fake or awkwardly strained. With members of the DA and the Order, Harry's had brief but heartfelt moments of victory, but even they cannot possibly understand the entirety of what Harry's going through. After a while, the victors of the 'Battle of Hogwarts' seem to be content with leaving their 'Saviour' well enough alone, perhaps due to the look he has on his face now, perhaps because of his earlier display of questionable sanity in the Great Hall – Harry wouldn't be the one to complain. Overall, the Light's concern for its hero's mental state seems to be fading fast.

The past hour has passed in a whirlwind for the three Gryffindors, tending to the wounded, taking care of the dead – sixty-three bodies, from both sides, they've counted. Harry has committed the face and name of each and every one to memory. Running around the grounds with the Order and the DA, they've cried, laughed, put out fires – Harry has truly run out of tears by now. All those injured have been herded off to the hospital wing, where Madame Pomfrey and her motley crew of 7th year interns have taken good control of the situation. Teams of Aurors are standing guard over the patients from the Dark side, waiting for them to be patched up enough for interrogation at the Ministry. Voldemort – Riddle? – has been put in a private ward reserved for staff and students with sensitive conditions under heavy security charms. Poppy has looked him over and declared, without missing a beat despite the identity of her patient, that he'll live; but really, they don't have to worry about him making a run for it any time soon – he'll be absolutely no condition to do so.

After that, Harry and his friends deemed it prudent to join the festivities in the ballroom. Not ten seconds after the boys piled their plates with food, Hermione took them by the arms and forcefully dragged them to a corner, demanding that they 'talk about things'. Namely, the Horcrux Dilemma.

Satisfied with the heavy-duty privacy wards she's thrown up, Hermione begins. "Let's get everything straight: Harry is still You-Know-Who's horcrux, and is practically invincible except for the three vulnerabilities all horcruxes have."

"Yes – immortality …" Harry mutters.

"So You-Know-Who cannot die as long as you live, Harry."

"Choose to live, yes."

Hermione continues grimly. "On the other hand, anyone who wants to destroy V-Voldemort has a reason to hurt Harry, since that is the only way."

A moment of silence, and Harry sighs. "Yes, I admit it was quite rash of me to shout all about horcruxes in front of all those people in the Great Hall. But blimey, I honestly thought we were _so over_ the whole horcrux thing …"

"But," Ron interjects, sounding uncertain. "Can't we find a way to somehow remove the soul piece? Put it in a different container that we can destroy?"

"That's a good plan, but I don't know, Ron." Harry replies. "I can count on my two hands all the people alive today who know anything at all about this particular branch of soul magic. We don't have much information to go on."

The three friends fall silent again. On the other side of the ballroom, a small Hufflepuff boy dumps a firecracker in his friend's goblet; outrageous yells and squeals and a mad cat-and-mouse around the room ensue.

"Maybe Voldemort knows." Hermione suddenly says, her eyes shining with that certain glint they get every time she's on to something.

"What?"

"Think about it, Harry: which living person today has reasons to know the most about horcruxes and soul magic? Although _we_ can't seem to find good literature on the subject, You-Know-Who's bound to have read extensively on it – he made seven horcruxes, for Godric's sake!"

Even though Harry wouldn't put it past a young and ambitious Tom Riddle to try powerful magic without a complete understanding of the subject, he has to concede that Hermione's reasoning, as always, has merit. The only problem remains –

"And why on earth would he be willing to tell us, even if he does know?" Ron questions.

"Because, well, he would just _hate_ the idea of me, his sworn enemy, having sole control over his last remaining horcrux. Must drive him crazy that I have this kind of power over him."

"But You-Know-Who isn't stupid, Harry!" Ron retorts. "He knows that once we get his dirty soul out of you, there's nothing standing between him and a quick Avada Cadevra."

"Then we make a deal."

"A deal based on what? What can we possibly offer that's more attractive than immortality? Coz immortality is what the bastard's been after all along, isn't it?" Ron looks between his now silent friends. "Unless ... freedom? We're not nutty enough to offer him _freedom_ , are we? Soon as he runs free, he can make ten more of those bloody horcruxes for all we know!"

"Of course not, Ron. We're not letting him go free." Hermione holds up a hand to placate the redheaded boy. "Why don't we put this idea on hold for now? The most important thing is, at the moment, that we keep Harry's, uh, situation strictly to ourselves."

All three agree that this is the most sensible thing to do. After all, they'd be hard pressed to find one person on this side of the war who doesn't want Voldemort dead, and if Harry's horcrux dilemma is made public, the Saviour would, in the best case, become a pariah again. And that wouldn't be fair to Harry, his friends decide, especially not after everything he's been through.

"But certain people has to know. For example, whoever's taking charge at the Ministry, since they'll be the ones doling out punishment to the dark forces." Harry points out.

"Kingsley is." Hermione supplies. "I ran into him earlier, and I dare say the Ministry is in good hands."

"He is? Good for him."

"What about McGonagall?" Ron adds. "She's taking over the school and most probably the Order, with Kingsley so busy with government stuff."

"Then we talk to her too." Hermione concedes. "We should ask them for a secrecy oath so that they can never reveal the secret to anyone without express permission from Harry himself. They'll surely agree. Since we have no way of knowing who exactly heard Harry mention horcruxes at the duel, there's nothing we can do about it. Nonetheless, we have to do our best to keep the secret."

"Slughorn." Harry says abruptly. "Slughorn also knows a fair bit about horcruxes."

"Are you serious, Harry? You can't go around telling _Slughorn_ something this juicy and expect him to keep his mouth shut!" Indignant, Ron turns to Hermione, waiting for her to back him up.

"Ron is right, Harry. I don't think you should trust Slughorn, not when he was the one to spill extremely sensitive information to a student with just a little alcohol and flattery from Tom Riddle."

"Fine." Outvoted as per usual, Harry yields. "I'll find a way to question Slughorn without compromising anything. I don't trust him either, but he _is_ our easiest option. And he did fight courageously for our cause this morning, despite his many shortcomings."

"All right then." Hermione concludes. "But the whole truth – the important parts anyway – we're only telling Kingsley and McGonagall, and that's it – no one else can know. In the meantime, we read everything we can find on soul magic."

And the trio once again has a plan. With impeccable timing, Hermione dismantles the wards and the three friends are joined in the cozy corner by Luna, Ginny, Dean, and Seamus, each with a healthy serving of food. Ginny's eyes are bloodshot and puffy, but she's already laughing at something silly Seamus has just said. Harry feels his heart melt at the sight; growing up the way they did, moving on quickly even after the greatest tragedy is something one must learn. Life doesn't stop for the fallen, and after this morning's victory, everyone's excited to finally _live_.

A few minutes later, Neville saunters over as well, a large bandage covering one side of his head and an equally huge grin on his face. "Harry! You should really hear some of these people talk – they think you've gone nuts! That was quite a scene in the Great Hall; what was so funny anyway?"

"Well I've always said our Potter boy is mental." Dean snickers. Ginny scoots closer to Harry along the couch so Neville has a spot to sit in. Harry laughs at nothing in particular and throws an arm over the youngest Weasley's shoulder, playing with a strand of her fiery hair.

And the next moment, realization dawns on him like a kick to the guts. _Nobody else can know_. None of the people he grew up and fought side by side with. None of the people he's come to view as family. Not even Ginny, who he yearns to spend a good portion of his life with. Ginny has long been able to see past his fame and status as the Boy-Who-Lived, but right now he isn't even sure himself that he can be _just Harry_. Ginny might be able to love him despite the tainted soul he carries, but can they really have any sort of life together when his fate remains, even now, so irrevocably entwined with that of the most feared wizard of the century? Harry harbours no illusions on that front. Ginny has grown into a brave and independent young woman, but she isn't battle hardened like Harry or Ron or Hermione. And Harry would give up anything, including _his_ chance with Ginny, to keep it that way. He feels awful enough that his two closest friends have to bear this terrible burden of the horcrux with him, and if he can help it, no one else will have to bear it. So as Dean and Neville start on a spirited discussion on what kind of punishment befits You-Know-Who, Harry casually excuses himself to the bathroom and quickly slips away.

Donning his father's Invisibility Cloak, Harry wanders the castle like a ghost. He needn't have bothered; most students are either in the ballroom or in their dorms, busy packing for home as there'll be no school until autumn. But the third Peverell brother's Hallow has always given Harry a sense of security, and that's exactly what he needs right now. All the blood has been cleared off the castle's surfaces – they again have the trusty elves to thank for this small mercy – but the fractures and scorch marks in the ancient stones are not that easy to repair. Walking aimlessly up revolving staircases and down half-burned corridors, Harry doesn't stop until he realizes his feet have carried him to the hospital wing, in front of the heavily locked door leading to the small room where Wizarding Britain's Number One Public Enemy currently resides. To his left, two Aurors stand guard, looking rather bored. Glancing around him, Harry sees that all surrendered Death Eaters have been escorted to the Ministry except the few that are too injured to be moved. Everyone on the Light side has already been treated, and Harry doesn't spot anyone he knows all that well. He turns back toward the private ward. Should he go in? No one would stop him, being the one who vanquished the Dark Lord and all that, but Poppy has said that they shouldn't expect Riddle to wake up until at least tomorrow. Sooner or later, Harry will have to talk to his arch nemesis to fish for horcrux-related information or to negotiate a blasted deal, but he most definitely hasn't thought through what to say yet. So what in Merlin's name is he doing here?

Unable to come up with an answer of any kind, Harry turns around silently and heads to Gryffindor Tower, looking to catch up on some sleep before lunch is served. Seamus has told him excitedly that two beds have just _shown up_ in Harry and Ron's old spots in the dorm, as if Hogwarts knows that its two wayward Gryffindor boys are here to stay, at least for a little while. But of course the castle knows, Harry smiles at that. Hogwarts is his true home, and there's no place quite like it.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Someone please review? o.o**

* * *

He wakes up to the sound of clothes rustling. Winning a battle of wills with his heavy eyelids, he blinks against the soft light and catches sight of a middle-aged woman standing by his bed. The medi-witch, probably. He does feel incredibly sick. And still so very cold. All parts of his body hurt with a vengeance, but that he's used to. He only wishes his head to stop pounding for a little while so he can think clearly, but that is not to be. His mind is still a jumbled mess and he can't really recall why he's here and it's so infuriating that he has this little control that – then his roaming eyes take in familiar drapes around the bed that are unmistakably _Hogwarts_. No other place has drapes quite like these. He's _safe_ , then, his frantic thoughts slowly winding down. What happened before he's still not sure, but it doesn't seem to matter that much any more. The medi-witch lays a hand on his forehead and draws away with a frown. She doesn't look afraid or anything. But why _should_ she look afraid? … Ah, doesn't matter at the moment. She opens her mouth to speak, but he doesn't give her the chance. Almost petulantly, he closes his eyes before she makes a sound, wishing to return to the warm oblivion of sleep.

* * *

Standing still as a rock, Harry stares at the assuming Elder wood stick lying innocently on his beside table. Even without touching it, he can feel waves of enticing power emanating from the thin piece of wood. Dumbledore's old wand; now it's his, whether he wants it or not.

In the crazed aftermath of the battle, Harry's forgotten all about the Deathstick. Until he found it emptying the pockets of the dirty clothing he wore to war, soon to be incinerated. And now he's spent the past day trying to come up with a satisfying hiding place for the most cursed weapon seen by wizardkind. If he could, Harry would love to return it to Dumbledore's grace, for in his mind, the wand has always belonged to his old Headmaster, the only one worthy of such power for he never used it for himself, but for all that is good and Light. That being said, the grave is much too obvious a hiding place, not to mention it's been proven lacking in security already. Harry's next choice would be the Room of Requirement, if only for old time's sake. But of course it's been done before, by none other than Voldemort himself. Besides, Harry suspects that the Room won't work quite right after being pillaged by Death Eaters and Fiendfyre that night. Harry's also briefly considered the Chamber of Secrets, but eventually decided against since as long as the true Heir of Slytherin is alive, that place can never be secure either. Going over another half dozen locations in his mind, Harry's arrived at the conclusion that the Deathstick cannot stay at Hogwarts. Just as well – the last thing Harry wants is for the school to attract unwanted attention from power hungry individuals that can post a threat to the students and staff. Storing the wand carefully in his inner pocket and grabbing a heavyset letter from his nightstand, Harry quickly steps into the common room fireplace, yelling "Gringotts" amidst green flames.

Barely landing with his dignity intact, Harry approaches the stern looking goblin – they all look stern, but still – behind the closest counter, brandishing the letter in his hand. "Lestrange vault, please."

Harry received the most peculiar letter yesterday: an official notice that he, Harry James Potter, is now the sole owner and administrator of the Lestrange vault at Gringotts. Apparently, despite bad blood, the Lestranges had always willed their monetary possessions to the most current heir to the Black family. By extension of Sirius' last will and testament, Harry is, all of a sudden, more than twice as filthy rich as before. Why the deranged couple never changed the will even after the Black line died out, Harry has no idea. He showed the letter to Ron and Hermione and the three couldn't stop laughing until their stomachs hurt royally. On one hand, Harry doesn't know what to think about inheriting the riches of two deceased _Death Eaters_. On the other, he now has a wonderfully ironic hiding place for the Deathstick. Gringotts' claim that no one can steel from tem and live is exaggerated – living proof right here – but it's true that never in history has the same vault been broken into twice.

The Goblin, Coppler, scrutinizes the letter and then Harry's forehand. Satisfied, he beckons Harry to follow, and they take the deep plunge into the guts of Gringotts. The Ride down is more exhilarating than Harry remembers, but circumstances – oh well. Harry remarks rather cheekily that this vault has been broken into before, and Coppler replies icily that 'rest assured, Mr. Potter, the vault is _perfectly_ safe.' The goblin glares at Harry in such a manner that indicates the bankers haven't quite forgotten the Boy-Who-Lived's one stint as bank robber.

The vault is very much how Harry remembers it, save for the rather conspicuous absence of a dragon. Signing his name in blood, he's immediately welcomed by mountains upon mountains of gold and treasure of all kinds. The goblin holds out a bony hand and slowly the anti-theft wards melt away. A few steps into the vault, Harry retrieves the Elder Wand from his pocket, now wrapped in a simple piece of black cloth. A little voice that's been nagging him since yesterday urges him to just snap the damn twig in two, for all the bloodbath it's caused and might continue to cause. But somehow that wouldn't be right. Granted, Harry isn't usually one to dwell on history, but it seems … _blasphemous_ to forfeit such ancient power. Besides, Harry argues silently, it might come in handy one day – say, if he really, really, really needs to win a duel … On that point, perhaps he shouldn't lock the wand away after all. He can turn the curse into a blessing, and like Dumbledore, use its immense power to protect the Light … Harry clamps down on that train of thought before it gains momentum. Temptations … He shakes his head. Large strides take him to the far side of the vault, where he chooses a new home for the Hallow, resting snugly behind a jewelry box bearing the Black family coat of arms. Let the crazy lady watch over you, Harry smirks. Turning pointedly away, he fills his rucksack with galleons – why the hell not, he _is_ running a little low on cash these days. He'll find a way to give this money to the Weasleys; it's only right, war retribution and all.

Having solved the Elder Wand problem, Harry feels one of his many burdens lift off. Walking past the floo terminals in the bank lobby, Harry heedlessly makes his second stupidest decision of the day: paying a visit to Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes on the other side of Diagon. Word is that George is back at the jokes shop already, in memory of his twin, selling as many firecrackers and pranks as people may desire to celebrate the downfall of the Dark. The moment Harry steps into the sun, however, he realizes that he'll never make it to the shop in this way.

"It's Harry Potter!" A little boy exclaims, all wide-eyed and innocent, cruelly dashing Harry's hope to blend into the swarming shop goers unnoticed. As if on cue, the crowd is upon him, cheering, jostling, asking for bloody _autographs_. Out of nowhere, men and women armed with cameras and Quick Quote Quills pop up, spraying out an onslaught of questions. How does it feel to have vanquished the Dark Lord? How did he do it exactly? Is he looking to be Minister of Magic? Who's his current love interest – _really, this soon, Rita_? Harry just stands there, half agape. Over the past few years, he's tried – he really has – but he simply wasn't born to be in the media spotlight. He can handle a speech in front of the Order or the DA well enough; he's 'modest but passionate, right to the point', if Hermione does say so herself. But when the strobe lights begin to flash, it's a different story. Just then, cornered on the polished steps of Gringotts, Harry comes up with his dumbest idea that day: maybe the wizarding public wouldn't be quite so frenzied if they saw their Boy Savior as a coward? With that in mind, Harry runs.

* * *

The next time he wakes up, he remembers that he's lost a war. The frenzied contentment he felt at surviving his most recent ordeal as a bodiless shade has faded, mercilessly washed away by the taste of defeat, of humiliation, still all too raw. _I am Lord Voldemort and I was killed by Harry Potter_ , he remembers clearly now. Stolen horcruxes, the Deathstick ripped from his hand, his own killing curse that was to be his end, _again_ … Then why is he alive still? Torn away from his body, floating like a shade … All right. Potter was wrong – he has to have at least one horcrux left. All is not lost, then. The unsavoury truth that he is weakened and completely at his enemies' mercy is not lost on him, not at all. But ah, these incorrigible fools that call themselves the Light! Some moral high ground! Keeping him alive, for what? Perhaps they want a court trial for him, as part of their ridiculous legal system? Or perhaps they deem a quick death too good an end for a monster like him; perhaps they've got all kinds of torture in store. No matter – in time, he'll find a way out of this; their arrogance and bleeding hearts will be their downfall, always.

Holding onto a glimmer of hope, he begins to take stock of the situation. Why is it still so bloody cold? His pounding headache hasn't gone away, and try as he might, he can only move his rigid limbs a few inches at most. Typical – his physical strength never did keep up with his whirling mind. In times like this, only one thing can comfort him. Like he's done a million times before, he reaches out for his magic –

And finds nothing there. But it's always been there! He's always been able to feel his magic like a living entity, ever since he was five years old, beaten and locked in a cupboard for one thing or another, dreaming of glory, plotting his revenge. It's the warmth that's always been simmering beneath his skin, the only friend he's ever trusted, and more often than not, the only thing that keeps him going. Keeps him sane. But now it's gone, disappeared, leaving a glaring hole in him, as if he's been torn apart all over again. Power, defeat, hope … they've lost all perspective, crashing down on him like a chilling wave. He's swept away like a ship with an anchor, a tree without roots, like a … broken soul that doesn't belong.

And he panics.

An invisible weight violently pushes all air out of his lungs. Thrashing desperately, he tries to get away from whatever is constricting him, but it's no use. The dark crimson drapes are closing in, and the thin blanket is getting impossibly heavy. His vision is fogging up. He claws at his throat weakly, his mind screaming although he can't make a sound. _No magic to save him this time._ What's the point then? It's all so meaningless, meaningless ... He almost wants to slip away, for good.

Through a white haze, he vaguely registers the door slamming open and someone crashing in. A woman is shouting, a strong hand is shaking him by the shoulder – what do they want? He just yearns to fade away in peace. That woman's voice again, calling his name – one of his names … _who is he_ without his magic anyway? Finally, a light flashes; a spell hits him gently and he goes from waking nightmare to painless oblivion.

* * *

Cocooned under red and gold stain sheets, Harry starts awake, in his mind a tornado of cluttered emotions that are not quite his. The last sensation he remembers is not being able to breathe, and he has to take several gulps of air before willing himself to calm down. It wouldn't do to wake everyone up for a silly nightmare the very second night he's resettled in dorm life. Lying back down, Harry thinks back on the dream and finds it odd. He remembers no certain terrifying event or situation; only emotions that have come out of nowhere yet feel all too real. A deep, terrible sense of loss; complete, unadulterated fear, the kind that can paralyze one's body and make it impossible to breathe. A very peculiar nightmare, indeed. What's brought it on? Harry wonders. Loss could be connected to his giving up the Elder Wand. As much as he loathes the idea, perhaps he subconsciously craves the Deathstick's power? The fear is much harder to explain; for the first time in sixteen years, there's no bogeyman for Harry to be scared of at night. Perhaps he ought to dig beyond the surface to decipher the true meaning … Merlin, he's sounding like bloody Trelawney! A large black dog is a terrible sign … As his treacherous thoughts turn towards Sirius and then Remus – how're Andromeda and little Teddy holding up? – a true sense of loss washes over him. Melancholy doesn't a good fellow make; Harry lets out a deep sigh. Waiting for sleep to reclaim him, he tries to make his mind as empty as possible, like he's done so many times in his accursed Occlumency sessions. It seems to work – when he finally falls back into slumber, Harry dreams of three young animaugi tearing through the Forbidden Forest, not a care in the world.

* * *

 **A/N: OMG my story burns SLOWLY, doesn't it ... Not exactly how I envisioned it, but bear with me, please XD**

 **I promise to get to the exile part in three or four more chapters. Also, Draco makes an appearance in the next instalment!**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Ha! The first time I've reached 10K words in any of my stories! ~~~ *Firecrackers***

 **I've decided; this is a long and deeply introspective story, and I like the pace it's going at just the way it is. I won't have the characters rush into plot points before they reach the right mindsets. I haven't forgotten the premise, promise; I'm getting there :P**

 **And four whole reviews! Thank you all!**

* * *

Harry stands in the middle of the Malfoy Manor living room, glancing around rather uneasily. Being in this particular manor brings back very unpleasant memories, but even Harry has to admit that the Malfoy family home is, for lack of a better word, _nice_. Comfy, even, not at all reminding one of a dark lord's lair – when one isn't being tortured half to death in the dungeons, at least. Harry arrived uninvited a little more than ten minutes ago, having obtained the address from Kingsley Shacklebolt without much trouble. The former Auror head has assumed the coordination and oversight of most Ministry affairs. Harry was greeted by a severe and extremely unwelcoming house elf – the polar opposite of dear Dobby – who has promised to inform _Young Master Draco_ before disappearing with a 'pop'.

The decorations in the living room leans toward the darker tones, but enough light shines in from the full-length windows, more than making up for the slightly depressing colour scheme. Although it's currently the latter half of May, a magical fire – green and silver flames, go figure – cackles merrily in the ornate fireplace, keeping the room at the perfect temperature. Harry is just about to sit down on one of the dark green armchairs before the fire when a cold, familiar drawl jostles him out of his musings.

"What do you want, Potter?"

Perhaps a better question would be 'why are you here'. Harry has been asking himself that repeatedly, and he trusts that he's come up with a few good enough answers by now. But maybe not, since he resolutely came alone, without consulting Ron or Hermione.

Pushing self-doubts aside, Harry turns toward the entrance and faces the Malfoy heir. Draco is dressed as impeccably as ever. His pale blonde hair has been trimmed neat and short; the way he used to wear it during younger and simpler years, when petty rivalries and fights were just that – schoolboys' play. Before they ended up on opposite sides of a war. Now, two days after the Dark Lord's fall, Draco wears his trademark haughty sneer like a mask, but Harry can tell his heart's not in it. The dark circles under his eyes sort of give him away. Besides, the absence of the Lord and Lady of the house is all too apparent. Lucius and Narcissa are still detained at the Ministry for interrogations. The youngest Malfoy has been released on a form of house arrest just the day before; on Harry's insistence, no less, although he's gone to great lengths to ensure Draco doesn't know that, yet.

"Come on, Potter, I don't have all day. What do you want, showing up at my house uninvited?"

"Morning, Draco. I was just wondering if I could take a look at the Dark Lord's …" Harry tries his best to sound respectful. "Uh, quarters?" Or lair. Or snake's nest. Or whatever evil megalomaniacs usually call their rooms.

"Why in Salazar's name would you want to do that?"

"Um, I just want to have a look around, that's all. I won't even touch anything. Draco, if you don't mind?"

"Of course I –" The blond suddenly stops, suspicious. "What's in it for me?" So much for loyalty.

"You can have your old wand back." Harry offers quickly. Draco's expression turns sour again.

"I can have my – after all this time? Oh, that's rich!" He lets out a mirthless laugh. "Awfully generous of you. What are you going to use to fight for your precious bloodtraitors and mudbloods then, Potter? No, wait, don't remind me – you're the big bad master of the Elder Wand now, aren't you? I must warn you though, Potter, none of the Deathstick's masters died a good death."

Harry can feel his ire rising dangerously fast. Maybe it's his own fault that even after all these years, Malfoy can still get him so worked up in a matter of seconds. Now that the war is over, Harry is more than willing to put aside their differences and start over – if only Malfoy would meet him half way! Instead, the ferret just has to be as insufferable as always. Harry has half the heart to hex him, and his magic perks up agreeably at that thought – since when does he think of his magic as _alive_ , he doesn't know – but that wouldn't do. Harry's not asking for the world; only that his childhood rival has enough sense to show some respect and gratitude to the one person who can keep him out of jail. But Malfoy's probably still touchy about losing his wand like that, and he could also be pissed that he'd been the master of the Elder Wand and had no clue whatsoever. Keeping his voice calm, Harry proceeds to ignore Draco's taunts.

"It's not charity, Draco. That wand belongs to you. I'll find something else."

Draco stares at him belligerently for another minute before turning around suddenly. "Follow me." Harry hastens to catch up, conscious of his footsteps echoing in the eerily silent manor. They make so many twists and turns in the colossal mansion that soon Harry gives up on memorizing the way altogether. He'll just have to call for that very put-out-looking elf when he's done. Eventually, they come to a stop before a plain, flat door, presumably somewhere in the back of the manor. No carvings, Harry observes; not even a handle. Even the portraits are absent in this part of the hall. Draco shifts his weight a little awkwardly. "Here it is; no one can get in anyways."

"Oh, I'm sure there's a way."

"Fine then, Potter; have at it. Don't break anything." Draco says in a derisive tone. "You can show yourself out later." With that, the Malfoy heir disappears into the depth of his own home.

Fairly certain that no one is watching, Harry concentrates very hard until he can picture a snake in his mind's eye. He hears himself hiss "open". Immediately, the door starts to emit a low humming sound companied by more hissing, and once it stops, a sturdy handle has morphed into shape. Pushing the door open with a soft click, Harry steps inside reverently, as if in the back of his mind he knows something magnificent is waiting for him on the other side.

The first room he's in is apparently a study. The room is spacious, but very modestly furnished compared to the other parts of Malfoy Manor Harry has seen. Right opposite the entrance, one huge window shows off the entirety of the Malfoys' vast and immaculate garden, filled with early-summer blooms and the greenest grass Harry has ever seen. Even the haughty, snow-white peacocks, strutting around like they own the place, only add to the magic of the garden. Mesmerized by the view, Harry stands before the window for a good five minutes before resuming his exploration of the room.

The other three walls are lined, floor to ceiling, with shelves, filled to the brim with either books and scrolls or magical instruments and artifacts, many of which Harry doesn't recognize. Most of the ones he does know of aren't even _dark_. A large work desk stands close to the window, its smooth surface completely barren. In the center of the room, above the coffee table between two leather couches, floats a map of Europe, sadly devoid of any markings. Half a dozen spells and all the synonyms of 'reveal' Harry can think of spoken in Parseltongue fail to make anything show. Perhaps it's just an ordinary map; perhaps it's been charmed like the Marauders' Map, responding to a certain phrase only. Either way, it's not much use to Harry. Painfully aware that this makes him sound like such a child, Harry thinks the study is incredibly boring. It's not like he was expecting skeletons under the desk or dried blood on the wall or something, but this room is impersonal to the core. At any rate, he did assume the office of one of the greatest wizards of the century would at least possess _some_ character – like Dumbledore's, for instance. This sterile looking room is quite the disappointment.

Yet somehow, Harry has the feeling that he's here to find something. Something important. Seeing no object of immediate interest, he pushes open the door to the right of the window. The next room he enters is slightly smaller – a bedroom, even more spotless than the study, if possible. The furnishing is almost Spartan. I see that all Malfoy elves are neat freaks, Harry snickers to himself. Or maybe it's just Voldemort. with the bed made and the wardrobe doors neatly shut, the room seems like it's never been inhabited. Even so, Harry is rather uncomfortable snooping around in his enemy's most private spaces like that. Too intimate, for he knows for sure that the dark lord stayed here at some point. A bedroom reminds him that his archenemy is still only human – has always been only human – and that makes everything that much more complicated.

With a sheepish flush on his face, Harry returns to the study, and that strange need to find something is back with full force. Something is calling him, calling for him to find it, free it, own it. This feeling reminds him so much of his dreams about the Department of Mysteries back in 5th year that the rational part of Harry knows that he should be more on guard. But another part of him is insists that whatever he finds on this peculiar quest will not harm him.

With great urgency, Harry searches the study for this something that's rightfully his, going over every object on every shelf. Books in English, books in other languages, old magical artifacts, dog-eared notebooks, nondescript scrolls, boxes with little keyholes, more books, closer, closer … Where is it? Moreover, _what_ is it? Harry vaguely notes that he must look every bit like a mad man right now, but that's of little import. His simmering magic is egging him on. Pacing the perimeter of the room for the third time, his eyes dark hungrily over the shelves until he land on a thin black box in the shadows of heavy tomes. It beckons Harry to come closer, and he readily complies, his legs almost moving on their own. In a trance, he reaches for the box and nearly touches it before he gives himself a mental slap – _constant vigilance_! Spewing out all of the detection spells Moody drilled into him that one summer, Harry is somewhat confident that there are no malicious wards on the box. But of course, a dark wizard of Voldemort's caliber could easily have put in defense mechanisms way out of Harry's depth. Before long though, his curiosity and Gryffindor courage win out. His heart thumping wildly in excitement, he opens the slim wooden box with deft fingers. For a moment, Harry forgets to breathe.

Yew. Thirteen and a half inches. Phoenix feather core.

Harry suddenly knows what he's come here to do all along. Throwing caution to the wind, he takes the want out of the box and waves it wildly in the air. It's pure magic. Green and silver sparks spring out the tip of the wand, landing on Harry's hair and shoulders then bouncing off, dancing all over the room like fairies. Tendrils of warm magic shoot out from his fingertips, travelling through his every vein, all at once, satiating an ache he hasn't even realized he had, but has surely suffered from ever since his old holy wand was snapped into two. Harry laughs, feeling eleven years old again. He feels complete. At one point, he swears he can hear a phoenix's song over his giddy laughter.

"Malfoy's elf!" Harry hollers. The box he has carelessly thrown back on the shelf whereas the wand he has tucked safely into his pocket. The obnoxious little creature appears with a pop, wordlessly leading Harry out of the manor. Harry doesn't mind the attitude any more; he walks with a spring in his steps and every corner and every portrait looks different. As they enter the living room once again, Harry deposits Draco's old wand on the mantelpiece, conjuring up a sardonic thank-you note. Once outside, Harry unshrinks his old Nimbus 2000 effortlessly and kicks off without a backwards glance. All his quarrels with Draco seem so meaningless now. Harry feels like he's on top of the world.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I do believe I'm turning into Dickens, what with my two main characters not meeting each other until halfway through the book. Just kidding - we're not even a quarter through this monster of a story. But, hey, Harry and Voldemort do meet (technically) in this chapter. And in the next one they're going to have THE TALK. Well, many talks, actually ... So stick with me? :P**

 **And leave a review telling me if everything makes sense, all right?**

* * *

"Harry! Where were you the whole morning?" The trio are once again occupying their favorite corner of the second-floor ballroom, now officially the temporary dining hall as the Great Hall is still being patched up. Lunch has just started.

"Out." Harry shrugs and shows his best friends the yew wand. They don't recognize it.

"Oh, you've got yourself a new wand! A nice looking one too, I must say." Hermione says cheerfully. She's been in a particularly good mood ever since she booked plane tickets to Australia, where she'll reunite with her parents. "What's it made of? Does it work well?"

"Phoenix feather core again; I guess I just have a thing for those flaming birds, eh?" Harry pockets the wand carefully, still mildly electrified every time he touches it. "Works like a charm too." He should be disgusted – no, mortified – at how taken he is with the weapon that was used to murder his parents and countless others, but who is he to question something that feels so _right_? Nothing in his life makes sense, after all. This wand did great things, Harry thinks back to Olivander's words. _Terrible, yes, but great._ The wand chooses the wizard, but it's the wizard that chooses what to with it.

"That's wonderful, mate. Although, how you got to Olivander's without being ambushed by those reporters again is beyond me. I would think that those bloodhounds are in a frenzy after Skeeter's 'in-depth' character study this morning." Ron remarks with obvious distaste.

"Skeeter's – what?"

"You haven't seen it yet? Blimey, you'll love this …" Ron reaches into his pack and pulls out the newest edition of the Daily Prophet. Right on front page centre is a rather unflattering picture of Harry himself, about to disappear into the gloom of Gringotts, looking royally pissed off and snarling at a small man beside him to let him go.

"I don't remember doing that …" Harry mutters darkly. "I do look a bit wild there, don't I?" Snatching the paper from Ron, Harry quickly scans the first page.

"So they're calling me crazy again – what's new?"

Ron snickers into his sandwich. "True. At least they're not setting you up as the next Dark Lord again – _yet_." The day the war ended, the Prophet didn't publish anything. Yesterday, it sold hundreds of thousands of copies of a one-page memorial, containing the names and smiling pictures of all fifty-three that perished on the Light side. A simple caption: _For Hogwarts_. But Harry supposes that today the paper just has to its nasty, attention-grabbing self again, doing what it does best: defaming the Boy-Who-Lived.

"Nothing they haven't said about me before. Crazy from trauma; crazy for attention; crazy after victory. Same difference." Harry tosses the newspaper down on the couch, unimpressed. "Although, I really hoped this to be over once the war is. But apparently the public has little more to be excited about in their lives…"

"I suppose I'll have to have a _talk_ with Skeeter again." Hermione scrunches her nose at that thought.

A Marauder worthy smile plants itself on Harry's face. "Nah, let's wait until we figure out a spell that can trap an animaugus in their animal state. I saw a little glass jar on Neville's windowsill that'll work perfectly for keeping a pet beetle …" Harry trails off mid-sentence as a wave of foreign emotions wash over him. His hand flies up to his scar out of habit, but in truth it doesn't even hurt this time. Prickles a little, at most.

"Harry?" Hermione nudges him, voice filled with concern.

"Oh it's fine. Doesn't hurt." He replies quickly. "I do believe the bastard's awake. Although the link's grown stronger, somehow. It's not his anger this time; its …" _Despair_? What a foreign emotion coming from the man whose soul he shares. But Harry supposes utter and complete defeat can do that to people. "It's gone now. I'll have to take up Occlumency again."

His friends are still eyeing him with worry, but they don't say anything more about the scar. They finish lunch in idle chitchat, and once their plates vanish, Harry makes his way to the hospital wing alone.

Harry stops outside of the private ward once again. It's tranquil here after lunch; soft sunlight stream through the windows and all the patients still staying in the general ward seem content in peaceful slumber. The two Aurors on guard – different ones from the other day, Harry notes idly – nod at him politely. At least they're not going crazy like all the people he's met not from Hogwarts or the Order so far. Madam Pomfrey strolls down the middle, checking every bed before greeting Harry with a warm smile.

"Harry, my dear, how are you feeling? Is something the matter?"

"Uh, no, no problem at all. I'm feeling great, actually." Harry smiles a little awkwardly. "How are you, Poppy?"

She says she's fine as well; not quite so busy anymore since the patients with the most severe conditions have been transferred to St Mungo's and the rest are faring pretty well. Harry glances at the heavily warded door a little helplessly, and the school healer immediately understands what he's here for.

"He's asleep right now." Madam Pomfrey says. "I have monitoring charms in there; they come in quite handy. Of course, we can go wake him if needed – he was quite lucid just half an hour ago."

Harry quickly says it won't be necessary.

"He's not doing very well, to tell the truth. Nothing I've done seems to help him at all. I've never dealt with something quite like this." Poppy's smile falters. Harry supposes that she's deeply bothered by any patient whose illness she can't soothe, no matter who that patient is. "Although, I suppose … Have they decided what to do with him yet?"

"No, no, not yet." Harry explains. "Kingsley is working on it, but the Ministry is still in a bit of a mess, unfortunately."

"I see. No worries; we can manage here." A hint of worry flits through her eyes. "Although yesterday he had this … seizure. Panic attack, for lack of a better word. I have no idea what brought it on, but he was surely going to suffocate to death if I didn't put a sleeping charm on him. It's quite frightening, the sight."

" _Oh_." Panic attack – it all makes sense now. So that's what last night's strange dream was? Harry has an inkling as to what brought it on. Voldemort probably never envisioned losing to a seventeen-year-old; he's way too proud for that, and now … That blasted mind link. Harry much prefers the usual manic glee or mindless rage. This loss and fear and desperation … It's _awful_ , for how can he remain proudly victorious when he can _feel_ the full depth of pain his victory has caused the defeated? Dumbledore got it wrong again – empathy is going to be Harry's downfall.

"Poppy, just be careful around him, will you?" He tries to keep the strain out of his voice.

Madam Pomfrey smiles and tells him not to worry about her, silly boy; she knows what she's doing.

"Okay, well, I guess I'll come back later, if that's no trouble?"

"Anytime, Harry. I'm sure it'll be no problem at all." Poppy looks at the two Aurors rather pointedly. They just shrug.

* * *

The conversation with Kingsley and Minerva go smoothly enough. They are gathered in the Headmaster's office, now Headmistress McGonagall's. Protective charms have been cast on all the portraits so they can't listen in on the conversation. Dumbledore isn't in his frame, and doesn't come even when they call to him. Just as well, Harry thinks; if he was here, he would probably just say something equally maddening as the parting words of Not-King's-Cross-Dumbledore. As Harry launches into his short tale, the two tried and true warriors of the Light have their eyes widen rather comically. Horror and apprehension dawn on their faces, but they don't interrupt until Harry finishes his explanations.

"So, Harry, he can't die unless you too..."

"I'm afraid so, Kingsley." Harry offers a not quite reassuring smile. He has just made this man's job that much harder.

The former Auror is silent for a moment, before meeting Harry's eyes with a determined look. "It's settled then. We can't execute You-k - Voldemort. I'll do everything in my power to help you at the Ministry, Harry, and make sure the public doesn't know. This kind of knowledge is far too dangerous."

"I too will help you however I can, Harry." McGonagall says, her eyes shining with a fierce protectiveness. "And you know you are always safe here at Hogwarts; no harm will come to you if I have any say in it."

"Thank you, Kingsley, Minerva." Harry breathes out a sigh of relief. He's known that confiding in these two Order members is a smart thing to do.

Hermione then crafts an intricate Oath, binding all five present in confidence, with Harry as the Keeper to his own greatest secret. Shacklebolt quickly takes his leave through the fireplace, returning to his frantically busy life as interim Minister. McGonagall waves the privacy wards away and asks the three teens if they would like to return to Hogwarts in the fall and complete their seventh year of study. After all, she repeats, Hogwarts' gates will always be open to the three Gryffindors. The Final Battle and the war in general have taken their toil on the school, but the Headmistress is dead set on having everything back to normal by September 1st. In Harry's mind, there's no doubt that she'll succeed. As for Minerva's question, Harry says he has to think about it; Ron and Hermione nod their agreement.

Yet as soon as they sit down for dinner, Hermione declares: "I believe I'll come back next year." Luna immediately perk up, her usual dreaminess replaced by a wide grin at the prospect of having another girl from the DA at school in her last year.

"Well, I suppose I will too." Ron follows quickly. "I mean, I do need those darn NEWT marks before I can start any Auror training. Knowing Kingsley, he probably won't let me down easy even if I helped, what, saved the world, yeah?"

The other Gryffindors laugh and Harry smirks. Knowing their new interim Minister, that is probably true.

"That's perfect." Neville says. "I'll be here anyway – Professor Sprout has agreed to take me on as an apprentice, although she _is_ always on my case about the NEWTs…"

"And you, Harry? Don't you want to start the Aurors program as soon as possible too?"

"I don't know." Harry says quietly, sombre again. He doesn't even know if he still wants to be an Auror anymore. For the first time since Hagrid introduced him to the world of magic, Harry is lost with no direction in life whatsoever. Hermione has been considering a career as a healer or a barrister, he knows. Both choices will require outstanding NEWT results, not that the smartest witch he's ever met will have any trouble with it. She's just excited by the prospect of returning to school in general, having missed dearly the quiet hours in the library and battle of wits in class while they were on the run. Ron _has_ to come back because Hermione is coming back. Like Harry, Ron has never been one for schoolwork, but on some level, Harry understands that his best friend is looking forward to returning to school as well. He'll want to play Quidditch again, bitch about professors behind their backs, go on sweet little dates to Hogsmeade with Hermione … To be just normal for a year after all the crazy. But Harry? Harry isn't sure he can _do normal_ again at this point.

Besides, Hogwarts is not the same. There was a kind of magic that was always there but it's not there anymore. When he voices that sentiment, Ron dismisses it easily.

"It's the wards, eh? Yeah, I know; it feels kind of weird to me too. But I don't see why we need to worry; it's not like we're still at war."

So Harry shakes his head and says 'never mind'. But it's true; Hogwarts is not the same. Something's missing, and it's not just the wards. Harry doesn't know how to put it into words, but thankfully he doesn't have to. Her crystal blue eyes once again clouded by an otherworldly gleam, Luna leans over and says:

"But of course Hogwarts feels different; it's the mosskers that ran away during the war. I do hope they decide to come back, one day."

Harry smiles; he hopes they'll come back too.

* * *

It's hopeless.

In the two days since he first woke up, he's spent every waking moment working on his magic. He focuses on every corner of his consciousness, drills a hole in his own mind, trying to find a trace – any trace – of his magic, and comes up empty. It's not a pleasant process; often times he screams out in despair, not caring if anybody could hear. At this point, it's the best he can do to keep the mindless panic from overtaking him like before.

When he sleeps, he has nightmares. If he feels up to it, he slams his Occlumency shields down, wondering if he still has that most curious mind link with the Potter brat and not wishing to find out. He can still do Occlumency, but that's saying nothing – mind magic is not so much about magic, but a trained mind. His mind is trained enough that he can protect it somewhat decently even without the magic to power it.

Whenever he's calm enough, he thinks rationally about what's happened to his magic. Has someone bound it? Is that to be his punishment, a life in confinement, as powerless as the very people he hates? He guesses that it would be fitting. But he can't detect any trace of foreign magic, for if someone's influenced his mind, he surely would know. Besides, it's _impossible_ ; he knows that for certain through all his years of studies and research. No spell, no ward, no ritual is powerful enough to do bind a wizard's magic, for how can you restrain raw magic with magic? Magic is deep inside a wizard's core; it's a part of him, a gift bestowed upon him ever since birth. For that reason only, all scholars have theorized if magic is stripped from a witch or a wizard, they die. There would be no way for them to go on living.

He's searched for his magic until the headache becomes unbearable. It's no use, so eventually he gives up. He stares up into nothing, a criminal on death roll. Seconds, minutes, hours tick by, too slow and too fast all at once. If only they would let him know when the execution is! At least then he'd have something to look forward to, a way out, but now…

An hour ago, he looked in a mirror for the first time after his defeat – he insisted on going to the washroom on his own, nearly killing himself - and Tom Riddle's youthful features stared back at him. He feels disgusted. As if being condemned to life as a prisoner and a near-muggle isn't enough, he is trapped in this corporeal form that reminds him of a time when he was still sickeningly charming, still a relative _nobody_ answering to his muggle name half of the time, still a young man craving – a small part of him, at least – recognition from his old Transfigurations professor. When he was still _weak_.

Truly, there is no higher power than irony.

He's still unbearably cold all the time. Madam Pomfrey has gotten him thicker blankets, cast numerous warming charms, but nothing works. The coldness has sunken into his bones, sniffing out any last trace of hope, much like a Dementor's touch. The coldness tastes like defeat. The medi-witch takes decent care of him. Her expression is always neutral, and sometimes her actions are kind, even. He supposes she takes _pity_ on him. How vile. Doesn't she know who he is, what he's done, what he would do to her if only he had the means to do so? But she just keeps on being infuriatingly professional, while he wishes that she was afraid of him.

The door clicks open. He doesn't move. The familiar voice of Harry Potter calls out tentatively. "Riddle?"

Ah, that insolent brat and that damned muggle name again! To irk him, just like that old coot did. Although … without his magic, who is he? Surely not Lord Voldemort, greatest dark lord of all times and heir to the mightiest of the Founders Four? Not even Tom Riddle, world traveller, dark arts prodigy, curse breaker extraordinaire. Not even Tom Riddle, Head Boy and seven-time Top of Form, one of his kind in Hogwarts history. Not even 'that Riddle freak', shame and tormentor of Wool's Orphanage. Without his magic, he doesn't know himself. What is he? "Abomination!" The memory of Mrs. Cole screams helpfully. He wonders what the orphanage people would call him if they could see him now. Still a freak?

He can't figure it out. And the scary thing is he doesn't care all that much anymore. He just wants it all to _end_.

Footsteps come closer to the bed. "Come on. I know you're awake, Riddle."

For the first time in six decades, he doesn't seethe in disgust at being called by his muggle father's name. In fact, he hardly feels _anything_ at all.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: THE TALK! Finally! I've been agonizing over this chapter for so many days O.o**

 **I'm still hoping for the conversations to flow more smoothly, but I'll leave it for now in the interest of moving on. The next chapter is ready too, and I'll post it tomorrow, probably.**

 **Reviews? Please?**

* * *

Fortunately enough, his scar doesn't hurt.

The private ward is windowless but pleasantly lit. A classic Hogwarts four-poster is parked in the middle, light blue drapes hoisted up neatly around the bedposts. Unlike the muggle hospital ward Harry visited when he was eight, no strong smell of antiseptics greets him as he enters. In fact, he can't make out any smell at all, the air completely purified by Poppy's spells. It's rather disconcerting, really, this complete lack of odour. But that is to be expected – Harry has spent enough time in this certain infirmary to know what it's like. What makes him so nervous is the person lying stock still under a thick swath of blankets.

"Come on, I know you're awake, Riddle." Harry takes a few bold steps forward and stops by the infirmary bed. "Mind link thingy, remember?"

Although he has prepared himself for this long and hard, his breath still hitches when he catches sight of his archenemy. Where there used to be a serpentine face and an unnatural baldness, there are now dark brown curls framing sickly but aristocratic features. Harry hasn't gotten used to that; doesn't _want_ to get used to Voldemort's new look, for it reminds him too much of the fact that his parent's murderer is human.

The eyes are what catch Harry off guard the most. They are very human eyes, but on the edges, a familiar crimson is eating away at grayish-blue. There are no slits, but the eyes still seem to narrow in a feline manner as Riddle turns and pierces the Boy-Who-Lived with an astonishingly sharp gaze.

"Are you here to gloat, boy?"

And Harry promptly forgets what he's got to say. The voice, although lower in timber and even pleasant to the ear, unmistakably belongs to the dark lord of his nightmares.

"I …" Harry opens his mouth, and then closes it, feeling silly. Finally, he lets out a brainless "How are you doing?" What – _what_?!

Riddle shares his opinion on the utter ridiculousness of the question. He starts to do his manic cackle but doesn't quite make it as it descends into painful sounding coughs.

After a long moment, the fallen dark lord manages to catch his breath. "How -how do I _look_ like I'm doing? How low the righteous have fallen! Do you have no regards for wizarding rights at all? Tell me, which one of the Order goons did this? Or was it an Auror? Because only someone from the Light can do something like this to the most sacred right of all – stripping away someone's magic!"

Harry frowns, getting more and more irritated as he really doesn't follow what the other man is saying. "What are you talking about, Riddle?"

"What, they didn't tell you, the Saviour of the Light?" Riddle snorts. "Open your eyes, brat, your friends aren't so squeaky clean. Someone did something to my magic - bound it, I don't know. Can you even imagine how that feels? I can't touch my magic; I can't, I –" He breaks off, swallowing viciously as his claw-like hands clutch at the blankets in a death grip.

"What? No, nobody bound your magic, I swear." Harry is no expert in magical theory or politics, but even he knows for certain that taking away a wizard's magic is not only forbidden, but also _impossible_. Besides, Kingsley hasn't mentioned anything in that regard. "Really, it must be something to do with the … ritual? The resurrection ritual?"

Harry stares at his defeated enemy intently, searching for a tell. The man's features might have changed drastically, but his mannerisms are still there, and Harry believes that he can still read him fairly well. But maybe not, because as far as Harry can tell, Riddle looks _disappointed_.

"So, are they setting a kangaroo trial up for me? Do you think they'd let me have my own barrister to play house?"

"I – I don't know." Harry replies tonelessly. "And I don't – don't suppose I should tell you, even if I knew." His mind is still stuck on the last part of their conversation. So this is what everything is about – no wonder Voldemort was scared out of his wits. He's lost his magic! Like Hogwarts lost its magic. Riddle is right, then – Harry really has no idea what it's like for such a powerful wizard to be rid of his magic. He imagines it must be hollow and harrowing and all kinds of _wrong_.

The awkward silence stretches on for a while. "Potter, if you have nothing interesting to say to me, will you _kindly_ get out of my sight?" Riddle demands suddenly. "Your face is annoying."

Huh? Broken out of his musings, Harry half gapes. Then he has to choke back laughter since this is absolutely the most childish thing he's heard _in a while_. "My face is – oh my, this is – oh – priceless." And then he can't hold back the funnies anymore, releasing the pent up energy he wasn't aware he's been harbouring for the past few days in a bout of mindless cackle. Harry only hopes that the room is somewhat soundproof, or the Aurors outside would surely think him crazy – _again_.

"You-you've grown _a lot_ more eloquent since your evil monologue-ing d-days, Riddle." Harry says once his breathing returns to normal, a Cheshire grin still splitting his face. Then he tries his very best to turn somewhat serious. "And you want some alone time to plot, eh? Your next great comeback? Hate to break it to you, Riddle, but this time you're well and utterly done, all right? So give it a rest already." So maybe he _is_ here to gloat; so what? "And you're right, I don't really have anything interesting to say to you."

That much is true. At some point, he might need to breach the horcrux topic, but not today. Today is – Harry doesn't know what today is. Let Riddle wallow in his mortality complex a little longer. Harry turns and leaves.

Much later, Harry realizes that all throughout their exchange, Riddle hasn't even once objected to being called by his birth name. How curious. The fallen dark lord must be feeling much sicker than he lets on. It's probably nothing, but Harry can't help but lament that it's so much harder to get a rise out of the other man this way.

* * *

 _Nobody bound your magic, I swear_ … Beseeched the boy. Even without Legilimency, he knows that Potter wasn't lying. Deep down, he's always expected as much, although he did allow himself a glimmer of hope that his magic-less state was caused by someone on the Light – that it was _reversible_. Now that hope is dashed, along with any reason for him to stay awake. How he wishes he can just fade away with the darkness and never wake up …

But he always wakes up – to blood-chilling coldness, to a pounding head and aches all over his body, to the voice of that medi-witch and the Potter brat. Gah, that Potter brat always comes to talk to him. He even tries to start every conversation pleasantly, as if having a pleasant conversation with the boy that defeated him was something _he_ would be interested in. So he doubles his efforts to make Potter lose his cool, make the rest of the boy's day miserable.

For Salazar knows it's easy enough to kill him, once the greatest wizard alive, in his current state. Maybe if he taunted the boy enough, Potter would snap and do the honour.

* * *

Harry finds himself straying to the small private ward in the hospital wing more and more often. Ron is spending most of his time at the Burrow. Hermione insists they research in the library all day long, but they haven't found anything of import this far. So Harry wanders to his archenemy's bed and just stands there.

During most of Harry's visits, Riddle is burrowed under heavy blankets and dead to the world. So Harry just keeps silent and watches him sleep for a while. It's creepy, Harry admits, but there is something chillingly mesmerizing about this emaciated creature confined to this sickbed – a mere shade of the great and terrible wizard Voldemort used to be. Sometimes, Riddle even looks peaceful in his sleep.

On the odd change that he's awake, Riddle never has anything pleasant to say to him. With disturbing eloquence, he insults everything from Harry's friends to the attire he's sporting that day. Once, he makes a choice remark on the integrity of Lily Potter, and Harry almost takes out his wand to teach the former dark lord a lesson with some very nasty curses – before he reminds himself he doesn't want to visit Not-King's-Cross in the near future. He doesn't suppose Riddle can take even one nasty curse in his sorry state.

Sometimes at night, Harry has strange dreams about the Final Battle. The duel between him and Voldemort, to be exact. As if stuck with a defective tape, he watches, over and over, himself and Voldemort circling each other, firing off red and green curses, the Elder Wand flying high in the air, and then everything explodes. The whole time he is gripped by a terrible but somehow impersonal fear.

Harry's Occlumency shield is mostly secure these days, but this particular dream often manages to slip through. He isn't sure whether it's Riddle's nightmare or his own. He would put money on the first option. If anything, it's grossly satisfying to know Voldemort might be scared silly of his defeat at Harry's hand.

* * *

The media never has anything nice to say about Harry Potter either.

The few Death Eater trials that have already started proceedings have been one shitfest after another, and Harry's decision to be a witness _for the defence_ at all three Malfoy trials ignites negative public opinion towards him. His short but moving speech at Draco Malfoy's preliminary hearing –witnesses aren't supposed to make speeches, Harry knows, but nobody stopped him because he's the Boy-Who-Wouldn't-Die - is published in full on the Prophet's front page and quoted by every single wizarding publication, almost inciting riots. The next day, the Prophet is back at the "Harry Potter is the next Dark Lord" game.

Immediately after, Harry's refusal to be the main speaker at a Ministry coordinated memorial service for the fallen of the Battle of Hogwarts, although polite and worded under Hermione's careful guidance, does him no favours in the public eye. His explanation that he wouldn't want to take the spotlight at an event dedicated to the true defenders of Hogwarts doesn't seem to register at all. The absence of the Boy-Who-Lived at public places and all society events after the Light's triumph feeds the wildest conspiracy theories and the conjecture that the Saviour of the Light might be turning Dark. Someone somehow snapped a picture of Harry and Hermione exiting the Restricted Section with armfuls of tomes on the darkest and vilest magic.

To her credit, Rita Skeeter starts toting the line that boredom and a lack of purpose in life is driving the boy hero to the other side, and the public eats it up. Harry has a funny feeling that for once, she might not be _too_ far off the mark.

* * *

"Do you know what's sweeter than victory, sweeter than power?" Riddle asks haughtily one day. Harry doesn't reply.

"It's revenge, Potter." The former dark lord answers for himself, his handsome features twisted by an all-too-familiar sneer. Harry senses a chill running down his spine. "And I'll have it soon enough. All of you had better watch out, especially you, Golden Boy."

Harry is silent once again, but Riddle doesn't seem to mind. "What do you know about revenge, boy? Not much, surely? You're too weak for revenge." Harry doesn't deign to answer. Riddle smiles dangerously and clicks his tongue. "Wait, I remember – did it feel good when you used the Cruciatus on dear dead Bella?"

Harry is rather shocked at the direction this conversation is taking, but answers resolutely. "No. I don't take pleasure in others' suffering; I'm nothing like you, Riddle." He didn't enjoy the Cruciatus, did he? He couldn't even hold it for more than a second. But his magic stirs and growls disapprovingly at his simplification of matters. Okay, yes, it might have felt a little – just a little – good. Not good, _powerful_. He's glad to know that he _can_ make his enemies hurt, even though he _won't._ Harry promises himself he is still nothing like Voldemort.

"But you can't stomach the killing curse, can you? Oh, you've never felt that power. It's exquisite; true magic. Weaklings like you can't possibly understand …" Riddle's eyes are mostly red now, complete with an unearthly glint. Harry resists the urge to bolt out of the room.

"You didn't even think of using it at our last duel, did you? Tell me, Potter, would you have killed _me_ if you had the chance?"

Harry isn't sure what Riddle is getting at, so he takes his leave. He thinks back to the dreams about the Final Battle, and he is even more confused.

"Do you think Voldemort could have another horcrux? Besides me, I mean?" Harry asks his best friends at dinner that day. Ron and Hermione shake their heads and demand to know what's brought this on.

"I - I'm not sure. It's just, well, he's in a really strange mood today." Harry feels kind of ridiculous, analyzing Voldemort's _mood_ , out of all things. "I believe he's hinting at a means to escape, or something."

"He's bluffing." Ron snorts. "He hasn't gotten back his magic, has he? And if he really knows how to get out, why would he tell _you_ out of all people?" Touché.

"So, Harry, you think we should notify Kingsley and the Aurors?" Hermione asks, slightly worried.

"No, no, Ron's right – he's probably bluffing." Harry replies. "Just forget I said anything,"

The next day, Riddle is back to his usual scathing self but doesn't make any remarkably strange comments. So Harry doesn't think any more about it.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Chapter Eight, as promised. The most emotional one so far, I believe.**

 **Thoughts?**

* * *

The odd situation between Harry and Riddle goes on for about a week. Hogwarts is a ghost town. But even the ghosts have made themselves scarce these days; it's as if they have disappeared along with the castle's magic. Only Peeves roars through the Great Hall occasionally, howling something incomprehensible, completely mad now.

Harry has been to the Burrow once since the end of the war. It's utterly dreadful. The Weasleys all seem so well-adjusted and ready to move on when they're out there, at work, with friends, in the Order, yet once they set foot in their family home, they turn into zombies. It's probably the familiarity of the house that reminds them all too acutely of the family member missing, gone forever. George, who jokes with the best of them at his Diagon shop, is completely catatonic at home. Ginny stares into the wall way too often as well, and Molly bursts into tears at the oddest provocation. But Harry hasn't got any tears left to cry. After a few hours, he decides to take his leave. Maybe his surrogate family just needs some time alone with their grief.

On Friday morning, Interim Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, announces to Wizarding Britain that Lord Voldemort ("We shall never fear that name again.") will stand trial for his numerous crimes on June 14th, 1998. Shacklebolt makes a passionate speech in the Minister Atrium, now erased of most traces from the previous Reign of Terror, about the importance of justice and equality before the law. Regardless, no one doubts the final outcome of this trial – it's You-Know-Who, after all; nothing short of the capital punishment would suffice. The reporters take pictures eagerly but they don't see through Kingsley's oratory; the Minister has got to be quite nervous, for he has no idea how the death sentence can be executed on someone immortal – until Sunday morning.

"Dementors - do you reckon it would work?" Kingsley has pulled the Golden Trio away from the Order brunch hosted at Hogwarts.

It takes Harry a few seconds to process what the Interim Minster can possibly mean. "You're saying we should use _Dementors_ on Voldemort?"

"But the Ministry doesn't have control over Dementors anymore – right?" Ron cries.

"Actually, we have two more Dementors at our disposal. They were not Azkaban guards and they never joined the Dark Alliance." Kingsley explains, sounding a little sheepish. "They were kept by the Unspeakables, who required these creatures for, um, _experiments_."

Harry shudders to think what experiments could possibly involve _Dementors_.

"So I was thinking," Kingsley continues. "Even though Voldemort has a part of his soul anchored to this world, maybe a Dementor can still suck out his main piece of soul and Harry's problem will solve itself?"

"It might work, theoretically." Hermione says, a thoughtful glint in her brown eyes. "But we can't tell for sure; it's a shame that so little research is available on either horcruxes or Dementors."

Ron protests immediately. "Those Dementors were a part of You-Know-Who's army; he must have a dark spell or ritual of some kind to control them so they can't harm him at all. Or maybe they don't even _want_ his soul, with it broken into pieces and all."

"That is true, but maybe – maybe he doesn't? Maybe the Dementors gave him their assistance only in exchange for their freedom afterwards. Maybe the condition of his soul doesn't bother these monsters." Harry counters, getting marginally excited. "We haven't encountered any spell or ritual that can control Dementors, have we? When we researched them before, Hermione?"

"No, not that I know of." The bushy haired witch confirms. "All right, this might work. But a Dementor's Kiss? It's so… so _cruel_." Hermione bites her lips and turns to the two boys, looking for moral support. Ron looks like he's having a similar debate in his head. Largely due to events that transpired in their third year and what little Sirius had spoken of his time in Azkaban, the teens share a very strong and personal hatred for Dementors. All three agree that nobody deserves to fall into the clutches of these soul-sucking former prison guards. Harry still believes in this wholeheartedly. But then again, this is _Voldemort_ they're talking about …

Kingsley obviously notices the three young Order members' discomfort.

"We don't have to decide now … Just, preferably sometime before June 14th?"

"Definitely, Kingsley." Hermione nods. "We'll talk amongst ourselves some more."

* * *

"He's getting worse." Madam Pomfrey informs Harry the day after Shacklebolt's announcement.

"He is?" Harry isn't exactly surprised. Riddle puts on a brave show whenever the Boy-Who-Lived is around, but Harry isn't blind; he knows his archenemy isn't faring well, even though his attitude is nasty as ever. Perhaps the resurrection ritual isn't meant to work twice after all?

"It's strange, really; he doesn't have an illness that I can identify, but he's just … wasting away." Poppy says, wringing her hands rather nervously. "Kingsley has set a trial date, hasn't he? But I'm rather afraid You-Know-Who won't last that long …"

"Don't worry about it, Poppy. I'm sure you're doing a great job." Harry answers the kind medi-witch with a small smile. He briefly considers confiding in the school healer he grew up with the fact that Riddle technically _can't die_ , but somehow he doubts that will mollify Poppy at all.

* * *

Draco Malfoy's trial concludes in record time. The eighteen-year-old is found guilty of only assault and aiding and abetting, and the sentence is simple: three year's probation, restricted travel in country. Essentially, the Malfoy heir walks away with only a slap on the wrist. Major papers speculate that perhaps the elder Malfoys will get away with just some hearty fines and house arrest as well.

The public outrage is expected. Angry mobs light a fire in the middle Diagon Alley and burn little blond-headed figurines. And black-haired ones with round glasses – in the interest of finding someone to blame, they have come for Harry Potter, witness for the defence.

Even Ron questions Harry's part in Draco's release. "I just don't get why you _had_ to speak up for the Ferret, Harry. We all knew it could come to this."

"Which part don't you understand, Ron?" Harry replies, mildly irritated. "I don't _like_ Malfoy personally, but he was born into this. He had no more of a choice in picking a side in this war than I did. And if he's sent to prison now, his life is _over_ , can't you see?" Ron blushes slightly.

"Besides," Harry continues. "If we were in the muggle world, eighteen is the legal age, isn't it? Draco might not even be tried as an adult, right, Mione?"

The muggle-born witch nods. "Yes, that's possible. And I for one thought it was right, what you did for Draco." She gives her boyfriend a _look_.

"All right, I wasn't blaming you, mate. It was a noble thing to do." Ron turns placating. "It's just – well, you've made things so much harder for yourself…"

Harry pats his best mate on the shoulder and says he knows; Ron would never fault him for the good things he does.

"Are you going to the World Cup quarter finals in Paris next week?" Ron changes the topic. "Dean asked me to ask you. I can't go because, you know …"

The youngest Weasley son is always wanted at home these days. Harry knows his friend is afraid of leaving his mum for too long.

"That sounds awesome." Harry says. In truth, he really wants to go with Dean and the other seventh years because the only professional Quidditch match he's seen was in his fourth year, and that experience got spoiled quite royally in the end. "But perhaps it's not a good idea … What if people get too much to drink and decide they want to burn the real thing instead of dolls that look like me?" Harry laughs mirthlessly. His friends look at him with concern in their eyes.

"I'm going back to the library. Coming, Mione?" Harry walks away briskly, and Hermione has to jog to follow.

* * *

The restoration of the castle is proceeding on schedule. McGonagall and the team of architects she's hired are talking about new and improved designs and décor. Harry is a little worried; what if he doesn't recognize his Hogwarts anymore? But Hagrid's hut is still Hagrid's hut, he's glad to see. The boy and the half-giant are lounging casually on the front porch, back to the Forbidden Forest, face to the setting sun.

A string of rather clamorous hoots suddenly breaks out overhead, jostling them from their companionable silence. The next moment, several dozen brilliantly coloured birds bounce out of the forest, twirling in mad circles. Harry can't see how their flight paths are even possible considering their rotund bodies and tiny wings; here's magical creatures for ya.

"Puffy birds." Hagrid remarks fondly. "Feisty little creatures. We ne'er covered 'em in class 'coz you can't tame 'em; can't keep 'em in one place."

"Where are they going?" Harry wonders. The round little birds are making chaotic but rapid progress away from the forest.

"Who knows? One year they fly to the north for the winter; one year they decide to make their nests over the ocean, or the desert. They go where e'er they please." Hagrid chuckles. "Some say they follow Winkies."

"Winkles?"

"Ah ha, little bouncy guys from fairy tales, no more. They ain't real, far as we know." Harry smiles; he shall ask Luna about them some time.

They watch the puffy birds make their way north. As the specks get too tiny for them to make out the colours, Hagrid suddenly says.

"Yer' not happy, Harry. But ye ought to be; we won the war, dain't we?"

"I don't know, Hagrid…" Harry smiles a little sadly at his first friend. "I – I'm kind of lost, I guess. I don't recognize this life I'm living; I don't know what to do anymore." Harry glances at the magnificent castle in the distance. "Even Hogwarts isn't the same ... I mean, of course I knew it wouldn't be like before, when Dumbledore … But …" He doesn't know how to put it into words.

Large brown eyes fix on the teen with a wisdom that doesn't come from books. "If yer' not happy here, Harry, you should go somewhere else. Like the puffy birds do." Hagrid says simply. "Be who you wanna be. We're all still gonna be here when you're ready to come back, yeah?"

"Thank you, Hagrid." Harry feels lighter than he has in quite a long time.

* * *

Exactly fifteen days after the end of the war, Harry realizes that Riddle _wants_ to die. The prisoner has just let out a string of his usual insults, to which Harry replied that he's the vilest monster to ever walk this earth.

"Why don't you just finish me off then?" Riddle demands hotly, his eyes flashing completely red.

"I can't." Harry replies simply. The next second, angry and unbidden tears pour out of Riddle's eyes, a snarl dying in his throat. The fallen dark lord blinks furiously, but he can't hold the treacherous tears back. What's he doing? He _never_ cries; hasn't cried since he was perhaps six years old! But this - this is just so _wretched_. What does the brat mean by 'he can't'? He can't because the Saviour is too sanctimonious to give his enemy a way out? Or has the boy finally learned to find revenge in torture, taking pleasure in his fate worse than death? Bloody perfect. He's lost a war, his magic, and now he's _crying_ in front of his archenemy like a baby. With his last shred of pride and dignity down the drain, he doesn't know if he even _has_ anything left to lose.

Harry stands there gaping, shocked to the core. It suddenly all makes sense. All those taunts, all those subtle hints that he still has something up his sleeve – all this time, Riddle's only been trying to get him to lose his temper and finish him off. "You – you really want to die?" Harry questions softly.

Catching his breath, Riddle lets out a raspy laugh. "Look at me, Potter! This – I have _nothing_ left to live for. I – I'm dying already; I can feel it. It gets worse every day, and it's just - just torture is what this is. And like my useless squib of a mother, I can't lift a wand to save myself. So anything – death, Hell – _anything_ is better than this … this _existence_." Crimson eyes bear into Harry's green ones, almost pleading. "I can't live without magic, Harry. So will you do it? A small mercy for the enemy you defeated? Just two simple words, that's all I ask …"

Harry feels like he's been hit by a freight train. A thousand lines of thought run through his mind at that moment, but he can't grasp any single one of them. In a moment of weakness, he decides to come clean.

"Do you, uh, do you ever wonder about this connection, mind link, we share? I mean, it is rather odd, isn't it?" Harry asks bluntly. It's Riddle's turn to stare at the teen with confounded apprehension.

"Why -"

Harry breaks him off so he can get it all out. He never knew how long he's wanted to say all these. "Did you pause to actually _think_ on it? How I can speak Parseltongue, how we were chosen by brother wands, how I could see through Nagini's eyes; how you blacked out as I did in that clearing? There is only one explanation and Dumbledore figured it out: _I am your horcrux_."

Riddle's eyes widen almost comically. Pushing violently at the headboard, he strains to sit up taller. " _You – no. No …. No, impossible…"_ Hissing fervently, Riddle stretches out an emaciated arm, as if trying to touch the teen so he can rest assured of his denial.

"It's true; got to face it, Riddle. The truth is always ugly, isn't it? But I learned to accept it in the end, to some extent." Harry carries on with newfound confidence. "And that's why I came to you in the Forbidden Forest that night – to sacrifice myself for the greater good. Not because I was afraid of a fight, not because we were too cowardly to defend Hogwarts to our last breath … You were supposed to kill your own soul, Voldemort."

Riddle's thin frame is shaking now; perhaps in rage, perhaps in fear, perhaps in fatigue – Harry isn't sure. And there is one more matter he needs to make clear.

"But I won't do it again." Harry's voice is softer when he speaks again. "I like living too much, I know now, even though you've quite single-handedly made my life a living hell for the past seventeen years, I still – I don't want to be a martyr again.

"So no, I _can't,_ really can't … _finish you off_." That's the nail in the coffin.

Riddle falls back onto the mattress bonelessly, his stare empty. Even someone who's just been handed the death sentence shouldn't look so forlorn, Harry thinks to himself. Although perhaps to Riddle, his 'life sentence' feels like the same thing.

"So, uh, maybe we can help each other." Harry offers awkwardly. "I want to live freely and you want to die. If you know of a way that can get your damned soul out of me, this is a good time to let me know."

Riddle hisses something almost too low to hear, and Harry finds his last bit of hope dashed mercilessly. " _No, no way … tried on Nagini, didn't work …. No_." Now Harry feels rather like a death row prisoner too.

"The first time you lost your body … How long did it take for you to get your magic back?"

A heavy silence. "Years." Riddle croaks out. Then he closes his eyes and turns slightly away, determined to shut the world out. Harry bolts out of the ward, walking his beloved castle as if he lost his soul. The seventh year Gryffindors call to him in the common room, but he ignores them completely, too disturbed to attempt a conversation with anyone. He flings himself onto his bedcovers, draws the curtains shut, and waits for the world to make sense again.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: A very, very, very long chapter. But we've gotten to the exile part, finally!**

 **Great thanks to all my reviewers; this one's for you! :P**

* * *

"Voldemort doesn't know how to get the horcrux out of me." Harry informs Ron and Hermione the next morning.

"What, you just straight up asked him?" The redhead raises his eyebrows. "What happened to tricking him? Making a deal?"

"Well, uh, it came up." Harry explains rather awkwardly. He hasn't exactly been keeping his best friends up to date on his conversations with Riddle; whatever they say in that ward, be it insults or threats that they trade, seems _private_ , somehow. Ron and Hermione have certainly been curious, but they know better than to force Harry into sharing. But now he has to clue his co-conspirators in on the last conversation they had. "And I'm fairly sure that he would've told me if he'd known because, um, he – he _wants to die_." This leaves a funny feeling in Harry's mouth; tastes a little like … betrayal? But he doesn't owe Riddle anything!

"But that's bonkers! You-Know-Who wants to die?" Ron exclaims. "For Godric's sake, the bastard made a horcrux at _sixteen_ and split his bloody soul six more times to keep himself immortal!"

"I know it sounds insane… But I don't think he's lying." Harry admits.

"Are you quite certain, Harry? Ron has a point; it's _really_ _unlike him_." Hermione asks with thinly veiled worry.

"Well, it's the way he talks, the way he's been taunting me to lose my temper – it all makes sense… I just sort of know, okay?"

"It's probably a trick." Ron says. "You-Know-Who's been a top-notch actor since he was a kid. You know that better than anyone, Harry."

"It could be a trick." Harry agrees. But then he thinks back to the pain and resignation in Riddle's eyes when he all but _begged_ Harry to kill him, and he isn't so sure anymore. The three friends resume their breakfast in silence.

"Let's try the Dememtor idea." Harry says quite suddenly. "I'll go floo Kingsley right after."

Hermione turns a bit white at that proclamation. 'But Harry-"

"It's the only way, isn't it? We're getting nowhere on our soul magic research; Slughorn has skipped town and, to be honest, he's probably no help at all. For all we know, there really isn't a way to get Voldemort's soul out of me." Harry argues, his voice rising faster than he would like. "I don't like this idea either, but the Dementors is the best plan we have right now. The only plan." _A small mercy for the enemy you defeated …_

"All right." Hermione nods, still shaken. "But we run it by Kingsley and make absolutely sure nothing goes wrong at the … the execution."

Ron nods too. Thank Merlin the redhead isn't as averse to this plan; he just wants Voldemort dead as soon as possible, so that the horrors of the war might die along with him.

Harry offers a weak smile to his best friends. "Right then – here's to vigilante justice."

* * *

It's freakishly cold on Saturday morning. A small group of Order members and Unspeakables gather for the private execution of the most notorious dark lord of the century. Shacklebolt followed through quickly after their heated discussion the day before. A public notice proclaiming You-Know-Who's death in the infirmary has already been drafted, and the whole affair is to be kept absolutely secret. No one from the Ministry has an inkling, save for the two faceless Unspeakables, whom Kingsley has vouched for personally. They have decided that, after the execution, the Dementors should be released into the wild, with the hope that they will follow their kin and leave the country altogether. Shacklebolt and McGonagall both agree with the Gryffindors that using Dementors as punishment is unnecessarily cruel and archaic.

They are currently in a large forest clearing outside of Hogwart's bounds. As soon as he exits the thestral-drawn carriage, Harry can sense an unnatural coldness and powerful wards protecting a large circle in the middle of the clearing. Across from them, the Unspeakables await them patiently, keeping two Dementors at bay. Even after all these years, Harry can't help but shudder at the sight of the creatures of his nightmare.

Riddle stills dramatically beside him. Harry didn't have the heart to tell his enemy what was going to happen earlier, and he feels much like a coward.

"It … it won't work." Riddle whispers hoarsely. "Please, don't –" But he doesn't finish. His pale features betray nothing.

"It's the only way." Harry isn't sure who he's really trying to convince. As he leads them towards the centre of the clearing, Riddle almost submissively follows, leaning heavily on the teen the whole way.

"Um, anything you want to … you know, say?"

Riddle shakes his head.

As Harry joins his friends on the edge of the protective wards, Shacklebolt raises his arm into the air, signalling the Unspeakables to let loose the Dementors. Harry knows that now is a good time to seal his Occlumency shields, but for some reason he doesn't do so. Would he _feel_ Riddle's shredded soul get sucked out, he wonders?

The defeated dark lord tries his best to stand tall in the centre of the clearing, his thin shoulders squared and his gait straight even as the death-like creatures glide towards him at full speed. Harry can't help but feel a hint of admiration for his enemy who emanates pride even in his last moment. As soon as the Dementors get within a few feet, however, Riddle drops like a stone to the ground, letting out almost inhuman howls. Images and sounds pour through Harry 's mind – loud yelling, raised fists, shunning looks, tight spaces only large enough for a small child, name calling, a female voice shrieking "Abomination!" …. _The complete anatomy of an awful childhood_ , Harry identifies at once. The sense of loneliness is so overbearing that it burns. Yet Harry doesn't have the strength to shut it out now.

One scene in particular plays itself over and over again.

 _A woman's painful screams tear through time and space; it doesn't cease until the wails of a baby sounds. The infant stops crying almost as soon as it starts._

 _"A boy …"_

 _"… Tom after his father, and Marvolo after mine …"_

 _"I have nothing left to live for … Oh but I do hope … he turns out looking like his daddy …"_

Everything clicks then. This is the last moments in the life of Merope Gaunt; the first moments for Tom Marvolo Riddle. The first thing that little boy witnesses is his mother's death. Realization chills Harry to the bones. For just like him, Voldemort's worst memory is the death of his mum. But where does so much guilt come from?

Back in reality, Riddle writhes in pain, struggling uselessly as the decaying monsters come ever nearer. One of the Dementor reaches for his neck with its claws but draws away quickly as if scorched, releasing a cackle that can only convey utter dissatisfaction. Its companion, meanwhile, almost gracefully lowers its hood, taking its sweet time before going in for the Kiss.

The spectators on the side of the clearing are shaken to the core. Hermione has already buried her face in Ron's shoulder. Harry doesn't believe he can bear to watch anymore either, but for some reason, he can't tear his eyes away.

Just as the vile opening the creature passes as a mouth is about to touch Riddle's deathly white skin, the Dementor turns away, apparently _disgusted_. Relief and disappointment flood through Harry like unstoppable waves, and he has no time to discern if it's his own emotions or his archenemy's. Nonetheless, the Dementor continues hovering over the crumpled form on the ground. Riddle has long since stopped screaming on the outside, but Harry can still hear wails of the utmost pain in his mind. _Oh God, please make it stop…What have we done?_

"It's not working, it's not working, we need to stop it …" Echoing Harry's sentiment, Hermione whispers with a tremor in her voice. Ron and McGonagall seem rooted to the spot.

"We're releasing them now. Get ready." Shacklebolt orders as calmly as he can manage. On the Interim Minister's command, the Unspeakables slash down with their wands and the wards encircling the execution ground disappear. The next instant, the soul-sucking creatures abandon the broken human on the ground and descend on the five vital Light witches and wizards on the other side of the clearing.

They raise their wands at the same time and yell out.

" _Expecto Patronum!_ " Harry has tried his best to focus on a happy memory, but the vision – memory? – of the dying Merope Gaunt is still too fresh, invading the forefront of his mind. Silver mist shoots out of the yew wand and dissipates as quickly; the familiar sight of his mighty stag is nowhere to be seen. Thankfully, his companions produce their patroni with little trouble. The otter, the lynx, the cat, and the terrier dart toward the two hooded creatures. The Dementors turn around and glide quickly away, disappearing into the depth of the forest; the patroni hastily give chase.

"That will take care of them. They won't return since they know they've run into trouble here." Kingsley says with confidence, holstering his wand.

"To be absolutely safe, we'll recast the anti-Dementor wards around the school." The Headmistress states. "Miss Granger, if you're interested in assisting me?"

"Certainly, Professor McGonagall." The young witch follows after their old Transfigurations professor as she makes her way back towards Hogwart's grounds. Ron looks to Kingsley for guidance while Harry is still white as a ghost.

Moving mechanically, Harry walks to the centre of the clearing. Riddle is still slumped on the ground, his chest heaving with shallow breaths but there is no trace of cognition in his eyes, now completely crimson. Harry could swear that Riddle has already been Kissed if he hadn't seen, with his own two eyes, the Dementor turn away at the last moment. Besides, he could still feel a frantic presence at the edge of their mind link. The former dark lord is still scared out of his mind, Harry realizes.

"I'm sorry…" Harry grasps his enemy's bony shoulders and pleads quietly. He has no idea why he feels such desperation and _guilt_ , Goddamnit, but these feelings are eating away at him nonetheless. "I'm sorry, honest! I should've known it wouldn't work … I should've – _Merlin_ …" Harry now knows, clear as day, no one, absolutely _no one_ , deserves a Dementor's Kiss. Yet how he wished this would work, that they could both have an easy way out! But now … _What have we done?_

Riddle stills thoroughly and stares at him with wide and unseeing eyes. He certainly _looks_ dead enough, Harry thinks to himself.

* * *

It's been a week since the Dementor incident. Hermione has already left for Australia and Ron is currently home at the Burrow. It took Harry close to forty-eight hours after that dreadful Saturday morning to face his defeated enemy again, but since then he's been visiting at least twice a day. Riddle has never graced him with a response, verbal or non-verbal.

"Hey." Harry says rather awkwardly upon entering the small ward. Riddle doesn't answer, staring straight up at the ceiling instead. It's the same every day; Harry honestly doesn't know why he bothers. Probably because he doesn't have anything better to do. His book raids in the Restricted Section have turned up a fat load of nothing. A little voice inside Harry reminds him that he still feels _guilty_ for throwing Riddle to the Dementors.

"I mean, if we are going to live for an eternity together, we'd better get to know each other a bit better, what do you say? When we're finally not actively trying to kill each other?" Still no reply.

"All right." Harry sighs. "You see, I've never been good at making idle small talk, especially not when it's one-sided, so … Here, I'll read you a story. Your twisted mind will probably find it amusing." And he takes out the newest copy of the Daily Prophet and starts to read aloud an article on how the Boy-Who-Lived is recruiting former classmates for a new Dark Alliance. Riddle doesn't make a sound throughout, but his lips twitch when they reach the part where Skeeter, in a moment of genius, notices Draco Malfoy's resemblance to a ferret.

After that, Harry has a new routine. Every morning, he takes breakfast early, grabs the morning edition of the Prophet, and slinks down to the hospital wing. For the next hour or so, he reads out loud stories from the newspaper while inserting choice comments in certain places. After that, he spends his whole day in the Restricted Section, flipping through page after page of absolutely useless information. Sometimes when Riddle isn't awake in the morning, Harry brings his books on soul magic to the ward and reads them there, always taking care to charm the covers to look like normal textbooks that the former dark lord will take zero interest in. Throughout all their news reading sessions, Riddle never says a thing, until one day two weeks in, they encounter an outlandishly silly article speculating on Minerva McGonagall's love life.

"Potter, if your puny brain can handle it," Riddle begins, his voice raspy from unuse. "May I suggest we read something a tad bit more intellectual?"

"Not a fan of the Prophet? Let me see … Oh, how about the Quibbler?" Riddle glares. "Fine, fine, I'll find something else."

* * *

"Do you have any muggle books left at Hogwarts?" Harry asks Hermione, now several thousand miles away in Oceania. He's phoning his best friend from the London International Floor Terminal. Harry is vaguely aware that long-distance muggle phone calls cost a ton, but he has more gold than he can squander in five lifetimes. Some time soon, he ought to get himself one of those mobile phones that the muggles like so much.

"No … I don't think so. I packed everything before I left. Maybe you can ask Dean or Seamus?" Hermione suggests. "What do you need a muggle book for?"

"Made a promise to someone; a joke, I guess. Long story, but I'll make sure to ask the boys. How's the land of kangaroos?" When Harry last spoke to Hermione a few days ago, she was over the moon. It took her a while to track down her parents' clinic in the suburbs of Brisbane, Australia, but everything went dreamily after that. She still can't believe that her reverse-trigger-Obliviate actually worked.

"Oh, Harry, Brisbane is simply _amazing_! The river, the suburbs, the people – it's nothing like downtown London, but I love it here. I think my parents' fallen in love with Queensland so much that they don't really want to go back to England anymore." Hermione chuckles, her euphoria seeping through even the scratchy phone reception. "They've closed down the clinic, and we're going on a cruise vacation along the east coast starting tomorrow. Perhaps they want the country to work its charm on me too?"

Harry laughs, genuinely happy for his friend. "Aw but I do hope you come back, Mione."

"It's only a floo journey away, no?" Hermione counters good-naturedly. " _You_ should come here and visit sometime soon. To see the ocean, the coast! It's so vast, so fresh, I've never seen something quite like it."

The ocean, the coast … Harry is suddenly filled with longing. He's only been intimate with the sea twice in his life, on a family vacation he was somehow allowed to tag along with the Dursleys and at Bill and Fleur's cottage. How he wishes he could see the golden coasts of Australia! Perhaps there he can be free…

"Maybe later." Harry says. "I don't suppose now is a good time, with all those changes and trials going on at the Ministry, and of course the Riddle problem …"

"Are you keeping on with the research?" Hermione sounds apologetic. "I wish I could be there to help, but –"

"Don't worry, Mione." Harry replies quickly. "I don't think there is much to be found in the Hogwarts library on this subject, honest. You just have all the fun in Australia, all right?"

Harry bids goodbye to Hermione and floos back to Hogwarts. In the Great Hall, he finds the seventh year Gryffindors and asks his dorm mates if they have a muggle book.

"I've got one on my bookshelf in the dorm." Seamus offers. "My grandpa sent it to me for Christmas, some book about a French general. As if I had the time to read history books for fun!"

Harry searches Seamus' side of the room – quite the mess – and finds a biography of Napoleon Bonaparte. He obscurely recalls writing a report on the French emperor in grammar school; Napoleon lost quite spectacularly in the end, didn't he? This is perfect. Godric knows how Harry _loves_ his old friend Irony.

* * *

Flipping the plastic covered book to the first page, Harry starts. "It was 1769 on the island of Corsica…" And Riddle's eyes _light up_. Harry wonders if he's imagining things, but doesn't stop in his reading. After he finishes the first chapter, he finds Riddle quietly attentive; there is even a small smile on his lips, his thoughts obviously still two centuries and one English Strait away.

"You like this book."

Riddle answers calmly. "Used to be my favourite."

"It's a _muggle_ book. About a muggle general." Harry asserts, incredulous.

"What, did you think I had books on _magic_ to read when I was ten years old? I had to find _something_ to occupy my mind, didn't I?" The fallen dark lord smirks. "I got this book from the muggle library up west. The old lady there was, _nice_ , to me – let me take out books even though I didn't have a card.

"And that little fellow, Bonaparte – my first hero. A true leader, a new hope for a nation as the old system dies. He wasn't French royalty by blood; just a boy who loved books, but he made himself _somebody_ , didn't he? Everyone knew his name."

Harry goggles at his long-time enemy, rather convinced that something's wrong with his own two ears. That's the most words Riddle has uttered since, well, since he asked Harry to kill him. Besides, he didn't imagine _Voldemort_ could speak of something so … _normal_. A favourite historical figure, not murder or torture or … This is so surreal.

"Wow, that's …" Harry swallows, then takes several large gulps of water. "Want me to continue?"

The former dark lord nods avidly. They follow young Napoleon as he joins the lower ranks of the French Army, reading well into the afternoon.

* * *

"I don't know what more I can do for him." Madam Pomfrey admits, spreading her hands as they stand outside of Riddle's room. "Whatever happened that Saturday certainly didn't do him favours. I honestly don't know what can help him at this point – except maybe … some sun and fresh air?"

And that's how Harry finds himself sitting beside his arch nemesis on the gentle slopes by the Black Lake. The grass is cushy and the breeze smells like summer. Riddle is stretched out with his arms under his head, eyes closed against the mild morning sun. He looks so very peaceful this way.

A cacophony of familiar hoots catches Harry's attention. Sure enough, he spots chubby little birds barrelling towards them over the lake.

"Puffy birds!" Harry calls out, so delighted to see these incredible creatures again that he momentarily forgets whom he's with. He's immediately embarrassed by his childishness.

Riddle cracks open his eyes – more blue than red today. "They're following the Winkles." It seems a bit of sun has done wonders to both his mood and his countenance.

"Winkles?" Harry questions, just like he did with Hagrid.

"Most people think they're not real, but yes, puffy birds tend to follow Winkles when they migrate."

"But Hagrid says –"

"That giant oaf doesn't know what he's talking about." Riddle sneers, a little more like his usual nasty self.

"Oh." Harry is rather glad Hagrid is wrong. They watch the puffy birds do their helter-skelter dance across the pale blue sky. Eventually, Riddle closes his eyes, ready to doze off again.

"I want to get out of here." Harry proclaims, startling the former dark lord for good measure. He's met with an indignant hiss.

" _What now, brat?_ "

"Hogwarts is your first home too, no?" Harry continues, unperturbed by Riddle's grumpiness. "I used to think I'd be happy to stay here my whole life, but now … something feels wrong about this place."

"Of course it does, Potter; don't be dense." Riddle harrumphs. "The magic is gone, simple as that."

"You can feel it too?-!" Harry exclaims. A hare leaps out of a bush by the lake in alarm. Harry regrets it as soon as the words leave his mouth. What's he so happy about? Just another freakish thing – sense, whatever – he and the sodding dark lord share!

Recovering from his faux pas, Harry goes on. "I guess I just want to go somewhere different. Preferably where no one knows who I am. Rita Skeeter isn't terribly wrong – I've been the Boy-Who-Lived for so long that, that I don't know who I really am without that title, that destiny … I'd jump at the chance to make my own name."

Harry has no idea since when he's considered Riddle someone he can have decent conversations with, but he accepts that it makes sense. Riddle knows most of his juicy secrets already, and is not – _probably_ not - inclined to write an article about him in the Prophet.

"Don't you want that too? Freedom?" Harry wonders if he's crossed a line. The man beside him is still very much depressed and suicidal, for all he knows. There is a long silence as the puffy bird hoots fade away.

"… Of course." Riddle admits eventually.

* * *

The headlines on Thursday sweep up Wizarding Britain in a hurricane. Or a shit-storm, as Seamus puts it colourfully.

 **Life Sentence for You-Know-Who? Shacklebolt Under Pressure to Step Down**

… _Is Kingsley Shacklebolt, former Auror head and a seasoned member of the Order of Phoenix, really a Dark supporter in disguise?_ Asks the Prophet. _Under Shacklebolt's administration, trials for apprehended Death Eaters are proceeding with remarkable efficiency, but the rulings on Draco Malfoy three weeks ago have incited widespread discontent in Wizarding Britain. Does the Interim Minister have a personal interest in the lenient handling of Dark Alliance prisoners?_

 _Today, the paper has received credible evidence that Ministry prosecutors will seek the life sentence for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. It begs the question why the current administration does not seek the capital punishment for the vilest criminal in our lifetime …_

Harry puts down the paper and darts to the Headmistress' office. He waits patiently for the next hour and a half until Kingsley answers his floo call.

"I swear, Harry, it's not an intentional leak." The dark-skinned wizard explains. He has a thin sheet of sweat on his forehead and exhaustion etched into his face. Harry feels terrible for his long-time ally; it's only mid-morning, and the storm's just starting. "We have reasons to believe that someone copied the lead prosecutor's notes and leaked it to the press."

Wait. "So you're really planning on straight out asking for a life sentence? For the freaking Dark Lord? Then what about all his followers, are they gonna walk free?"

Kingsley frowns. "Yes, it's one of the scenarios we're working on. Barrister Foster has drafted different opening statements; nothing's been decided yet. But, Harry, you have to admit it's one of the better ways, what with the Dementors … We can't have the public knowing Voldemort _can't die_ , can we? And the trial's starting in three days."

That is a good point. But there must be another way …

"Oh, Kingsley, you're not really stepping down, are you?" Harry inquires urgently. "It seems bad but, uh, I think our society really needs someone like you right now …'

"Don't worry, my young friend." The Order veteran replies with a minute smile. "I know my duties. But now I really have to go, Harry. Take care of yourself, will you?" And with that the Interim Minister ends the floo call, and the teen is left alone with a world that still makes very little sense.

Harry needs to talk to someone. Someone he can be honest with. It's currently midnight in Australia so phoning Hermione is no good. He isn't sure where Ron is. Charlie is leaving for Romania today, and the Weasleys are seeing him off. Charlie … Harry suddenly remembers something – probably his way out.

Running like mad to the owlery, Harry finds his path clearer than ever before.

He needs to get out of here. He longs to be free and start anew. He wants to see the sun and the sea and friendly faces that judge him for _who he is_ instead of who he's supposed to be.

And he knows just the place to go.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: WARNING, sort of: Starting with this chapter, there WILL be original characters. Quite a lot of them, in fact, since I'm creating an extended magical universe from scratch. However, rest assured that Harry and Voldemort will remain the only central characters, and I'll only write from their PoVs if I can help it.**

 **We set sail this chapter! Enjoy :)**

* * *

"Newfoundland, Canada?!" Hermione exclaims so loudly that Harry has to move the cell phone a good distance away from his ear.

"Yes, Mione. I heard it's nice this time of the year. Besides, I know people there."

Desmond Potter and his younger sister, Erin, live near the muggle city of St. John's, Newfoundland. They wrote to Harry in the summer after his sixth year, introducing themselves as the great-great-great-great-great-grandchildren of the brother of Harry's great-great-great-great-great-grandfather. Aside from wishing Harry and his allies good luck in the upcoming British wizarding war, they informed the teen of the several properties near their home that technically belong to James Potter's heir, so if Harry ever needed a place to stay … Out of politeness, Harry wrote back. At the time he was nowhere near in state of mind to visit across the ocean. Nonetheless, he was genuinely curious about these people who share his family name, descendants of the more adventurous side of the Potter clan, who sailed to the New World following the heyday of muggle exploration. These people referred to themselves as family – Harry's cousins, however many times removed. And here Harry thought Aunt Petunia was his only blood relative left!

"So … you're joining your relatives, Desmond and E-Ellen?" Hermione's memory is incredible. Harry only mentioned the letter from Newfoundland briefly last summer.

"Erin. Erin and Desmond. I wrote them a letter already, letting them know I'm coming. They did say I was welcome anytime…" Harry stops, turning thoughtful. "Hermione."

"Yes, Harry?" The young witch sounds worried now.

"Do you find me, I don't know, a coward? Running away like this? I feel like I've been letting everyone down ever since the end of the war …"

"Harry, stop." Hermione says resolutely. "Godric knows you don't owe anyone anything! You need to live your life for yourself – I know that now more than ever - and if a new place is what makes you happy, then … You shouldn't let anyone stop you." Hermione's ship is currently docked at Sydney. From what Harry gathers, she's having the time of her life.

"But of course it is easier said and done. For someone like you, especially." Hermione adds quietly. "And the timing … it sure is dreadful. What about – what about, you know, Voldemort? The trial and everything …"

"Oh, him. That's the best part." Harry lets out a Marauder worthy snicker. "I'm taking him with me."

For once, the smartest witch to attend Hogwarts in a dozen years is at a loss for words. Harry starts to worry about his conversation with Ron.

* * *

Riddle scowls theatrically at the little steamboat bobbing up and down at Dock 18. Harry is surprised too. From the letter he received, he'd imagined the ship to be at least a quarter of a Titanic, but this boat they have in front of them is a bit … dingy. Especially so for a transatlantic journey.

It's not a pleasant day at Port Glasgow. At only seven o'clock on a summer day, the sky is unusually dark, the setting sun nowhere to be seen. Heavy clouds press upon them ominously from the west, foretelling a storm in the brewing. It won't be a smooth night at sea, but at least their ship is magical. Harry sincerely hopes it's much, much sturdier than it looks.

Their great escape from Hogwarts has been anticlimactic. In the end, Harry resolved to leaving Ron a letter explaining everything instead of confronting his best mate. It's a wimpy thing to do, Harry admits. Whatever. Since the victory of the Light, Harry has felt like a lackluster hero constantly.

The boy and his curious enemy made their move under the pretence of another innocent walk along the Black Lake. Madam Pomfrey knew, Harry supposes; she most helpfully pointed Harry to the medicine cabinet where she stored the potions she used on Riddle. She even left it open! One of Hagrid's thestral carriages wasn't so hard to commandeer. They landed discreetly near a country train station, far, far way from any magical establishment, and from there they took the muggle train to the city of Glasgow. Then it was a long and arduous journey to Port Glasgow and the exact dock Harry was supposed to meet the ship. Along the way, Harry procured a wheelchair for the sickly dark lord's benefit. It's inconspicuous enough. Riddle seethes at being pushed around - in such a muggle contraption, no less – but Harry pays him no mind. It's not like Riddle could make the mile-long trek along the docks on his own.

"Potter, you'd choose travelling by this – _vessel_ – over the Floo Network?" Riddle remarks incredibly, wearing a very Draco Malfoy sneer. It's sort of funny, really.

Harry shrugs. A deep and melodic male voice answers for him. "Oh, but it's more about the journey than the destination, young man!"

Riddle duly hisses murder at both the comment and being called "young man". Harry looks up and smiles at the burly old seafarer sauntering towards them.

"You must be Captain Frost." Captain Frost is a good friend of Charlie Weasley's, and Harry can certainly see why. Frost has long been compared to Stan Shunpike, and his steamboat, the not-so-aptly-named _HMS Windbreaker_ , is considered the Knight Bus of the Atlantic. Even though the Captain has been in retirement for the last few years, he is more than happy to give Harry and his ill-tempered companion a lift to other side of the Pond.

"Indeed I am!" The old man says heartily. "Roger Frost, pirate, captain, explorer – at your service."

"You don't have a gun or a sword. Or a hook or an eye patch." Riddle drawls insolently. "You don't even _talk_ like a pirate." Harry wonders if his long-time enemy is aware he sounds fully ten years old. But perhaps petulance doesn't mellow out with age.

"A pirate needs none of these things." Captain James answers in all seriousness. "I am a pirate for I believe everything in the Seven Seas belong to everyone and no one at all."

" _Bloody insane_." Riddle hisses. Harry laughs; he's really starting to like this captain. If Frost's eyes twinkled, he could make a perfect Dumbledore.

Harry quickly introduces themselves as just Harry and Tom – much to Riddle's chagrin – and the Captain seems to be satisfied with the muggle first names. Nonetheless, Harry has a feeling that the seafarer knows exactly who his passengers are.

"All aboard, shall we?" The Captain claps his hands cheerily.

Riddle pushes himself up from the chair with a custom haughtiness. Harry watches, somewhat amused, as the former dark lord navigates the crude wooden boards bridging the dock and the ship on his unsteady, long limbs. Riddle promptly tumbles as he reaches the deck, rocking turbulently atop the waves, and his attempts to get up are laughably futile. Harry snickers.

" _What's so funny, brat?_ "

Harry holds out a hand, but can't help replying. "You kind of look like Bambi, no?" _Oh, if looks can kill_ … Riddle accepts his help nonetheless.

With a cheery squawk, a medium-sized bird swoops down in a rather ostentatious manner and makes a perfect landing on the Captain's left shoulder. Following Riddle's train of thought on muggle pirating clichés, Harry half expects the bird to be a talking, psychopathic parrot. Instead, the creature turns out to be the most beautiful seagull Harry has ever seen, in pictures or in real life. Half of its feathers are a perfectly toned grey, and the other half is white as snow, unruffled by the wind. Above the bright orange beak, two little eyes peak at the teen with astounding intelligence.

"Skippy, meet Harry and Tom." Frost says. "This is Skippy – you might call him my familiar, but I consider him my Sailing Master and First Mate. Brightest bird you'll ever meet – I can't imagine how I'd navigate the seas without him!"

Having scrutinized his master's guests from head to toe, the seagull taps one webbed foot on the Captain's shoulder impatiently, making a few quiet squawks. The Captain, oddly enough, seems to be _listening_ to the bird.

"… Thirty-two degrees … Oh? Good, good … Excuse me, lads, but I do believe my First Mate needs my checking up on a few things before we set sail!" With that, the old sailor turns and heads to the back of the steamboat, still talking animatedly to the seagull.

Harry is mesmerized. He can't help but think of another bird that has snowy white feathers, one of his first and truest friends. Riddle just has to spoil the moment.

" _This man's not quite right in the head – you can't possibly communicate with a seagull!_ "

Harry whirls around and demands. "And what do you know about bird rearing? Hedwig and I could understand each other fine – until you killed her!"

"Trust me, Potter, I had no intention to kill an innocent animal, not even that stupid owl you called a familiar." Riddle replies icily. "But alas, it was protecting you, wasn't it? You should perhaps think on this: why is it that everyone around you seems to die like flies for your sake? Your parents, for example –"

At this, Harry seizes Riddle's collar and slams him back against the railing. The former dark lord grows still, as if waiting for an inevitable hit, but his red-stained eyes are still defiant, almost taunting.

In moments like this, Harry doubts why he really puts up with Riddle. He's asked himself this question so many times. The best answer he's come up with is that he can be crass and moody and painfully honest with this man only. Harry can vent all his negative thoughts at him because, well, it's all Riddle's fault anyway. Everyone else expects the Boy-Who-Lived to act jolly, a symbol of the Light, a beacon of hope. "Now that the war is over..." They all say. But why? What good does the end of the war do? Harry's still not living the life he's always wanted. The end of the war … it doesn't bring his parents and friends back, does it? Watching Bellatrix Lestrange die doesn't let Harry hear Sirius laugh again, does it? As the rest of Wizarding Britain moves on, Harry decides, he for one has the right to refuse to be happy. Having his archenemy to scream at sometimes helps, he finds.

Sighing, Harry releases the petulant dark lord. He usually doesn't lose his temper this easily, but it's been a long day for the both of them. Since they managed not to kill each other on the muggle train, however, Harry figures that they shouldn't get into it here and now.

"Let's not fight like this – bad form and whatnot." Harry offers. "A truce?"

Righting himself with both hands on the railing, Riddle lets out a long-suffering sigh – what has _he_ got to complain about? – but nods nonetheless. The Captain reappears at the next moment, and Harry is glad that he hasn't been privy to their altercation.

"Skippy's off to scout the waterway for us." Frost explains. "Now, why don't I show you lads the cabin?"

It really turns out to be _the_ cabin, and a tiny one at that. Two narrow bunks line one of the walls, and Harry barely has enough room for his trunk, now restored to its unshrunken size.

"Dibs on the top bunk." Harry smirks. Riddle, on the other hand, hasn't stopped scowling since this morning. A little vindictively, Harry wonders if that expression might get stuck on Riddle's features – it would certainly suit his personality well.

* * *

They depart at a little after eight. It's almost too dark to see anything, but Harry is still standing duly at the bow. He's never been at sea before. Although they're still technically on the River Clyde, Harry feels much like a giddy five-year-old.

No port authority boat is guiding the _Windbreaker_ tonight, but Harry can make out Skippy flying way ahead, leading their way to the ocean. Other gulls are circling overhead and crying all around the ship. There are faint sounds of thunder crashing in the distance. Energy cackles in the night air – the calm before the storm – as does Harry's magic. Wind ruffling his hair, the teen lets his magic run free in brilliantly coloured sparks. He can't help let out a hearty laugh – they're sailing towards freedom; what his friends or the reporters would think if they could see him now!

* * *

Bedtime rolls around and Harry starts to worry. Joking around at Riddle's expense is one thing; Harry begins to feel a little comfortable with sharing living space with his worst enemy. Especially at night. Voldemort's death wish is all too fresh on his mind. To be fair, it's unlikely that the former dark lord has somehow acquired a Basilisk's fang or, better yet, Godric's sword. And it's not like Riddle has a wand or the capability to create Fiendfyre. Still, Harry finds the idea of falling asleep in the same room as his enemy quite ... disconcerting. He would rather not get murdered in his sleep.

Riddle retired soon after they undocked, exhausted by the day's travels. He even asked _politely_ for a change of clothes, and Harry sacrificed the brand new Gryffindor pyjamas his dorm mates gave him as a 'welcome back' gift. Riddle's indignation is well founded this time, Harry chuckles to himself; red and gold really doesn't suit him.

Summoning the N.E.W.T. Transfigurations textbook Hermione insisted he bring, he obstinately sets out to read, determined not to surrender to sleep anytime soon. He makes it half a chapter in before he's yawning constantly and the dim lighting and fine print make his eyes water. Harry concedes that he can't put off sleep much longer.

Peeking down at the lower bunk, Harry finds Riddle fast asleep. The duvet is wrapped around him defensively, and his delicate brows are knitted, almost in nervousness – it's not one of those occasional good dreams he's having, then. Content that Riddle is not up for attempting murder-suicide at the moment, Harry throws up a few more protection charms around his bunk, just to be safe. He closes his eyes, and sleep takes him a few seconds later.

* * *

Harry starts awake in pitch darkness. The instant he remembers whom he's sharing a cabin with, he reaches for his wand. Another moment and some frantic looking around, he assures himself that he's safe for now.

It's probably the storm that woke him up anyway. The calm from before is all gone now; thunder and rain are crashing mercilessly outside as the wind howls. The little steamboat is rocking and creaking violently under the stress, and Harry is almost worried that he might fall off the bunk. A few moments later, however, his sharp ears catch something even more chilling than the storm – something unexpected.

"Go away … Please! … Get away from me …" A croaking voice wails. "Go … No! No… Away, _please_ …" There is only one person who can be making this horrid sound. Harry's mental shields are intact and he doesn't dare lower them. He has no desire to know what horrors _Voldemort_ can be _pleading_ to get away from.

Turning on the cabin light, Harry hops off the top bunk and takes in the sight. Riddle has backed himself into the corner, stiffly against the cold walls as if he's being pinned into place. The wails have lowered into almost whimpers, but he's still muttering something that Harry can't quite make out. It doesn't look like it'll pass any time soon, Harry bemoans. There is only one thing to do then.

"Hey, wake up!" Harry perches carefully on the side of the lower bunk and snaps his fingers in front of the former dark lord's face. "Wake up, Riddle! It's not real!" A particularly loud thunder crashes. When that fails to work, Harry grabs his shoulder and shake forcefully.

Crimson tainted eyes shoot open, anxious and unhinged. A bolt of lightning strikes too close to comfort, lighting up the small cabin through the porthole. For one hypnotizing moment, Riddle's features are completely unguarded, and Harry recognizes something that is disturbingly familiar. Something he's used to seeing in the mirror. Yet the next second, a well-practiced mask of indifference slips into place, and Riddle jeers.

"What are you doing, Potter?" Riddle's voice is still cracked, and he almost gives a self-conscious grimace.

"You woke me up with your cries. I'm just returning the favour." Harry counters flippantly. "Imagine how loud they are; I could hear it even through the storm. So the almighty Dark Lord is afraid of his own dreams?"

Riddle clenches his jaw, not rising to the bait. But Harry knows the answer already. He thinks back to all those times in the past few weeks, when he woke up breathless from night terrors that weren't his. Harry could only catch the faintest glimpses of those dreams since his Occlumency shields protect him decently enough, but their mind link is so strong nowadays that some scenes did manage to seep through. It happened almost every night. Harry has surmised that Riddle has an impressive collection of awful dreams – he certainly has material enough for it. It's a wonder the prisoner ever gets any actual rest.

"Do you ever _not_ have a nightmare?" Harry asks, curious and even mildly concerned. Of course Riddle takes it the wrong way.

" _Yes_ , when I take Dreamless Sleep, but anyone with half a brain knows that potion is addicting. So I used to put up silencing charms in consideration of my dorm mates." Riddle says drily. "Forgive me if I don't have the means to do that now. Silence the bunk yourself, or whatever."

Harry climbs back up to the upper bunk, but doesn't cast a silencing charm. If something happens with the monster literally under his bed, he reasons, he ought to at least know about it.

* * *

 **I did say an island, I know. Newfoundland is an island! :P A very, very, very big one, but still an island!**

 **And in my humble opinion, it's about time magic came to Canada :)**


	11. Chapter 11

Harry wakes up late the next morning. One look out of the porthole tells him that they're not on the River Clyde anymore. It's a perfect day today, and the endless stretch of blue can only be the Atlantic Ocean. Feeling rather like a little kid on Christmas day, Harry pulls on the first clothes he happens to grab and dashes out of the cabin. The deck is warmed just enough by the morning sun for him to run around barefoot, and – he stops dead in his tracks before he can run into the back of his sworn enemy.

At the back of the ship, Riddle is leaning a little haphazardly on the railings, slightly more dishevelled than Harry's used to seeing him. It is rather hard to maintain one's image, cramped in the tiny onboard bathroom when the ship heaves up and down, the teen concedes. Even the whites of Riddle's eyes are bloodshot, and he seems like he hasn't slept at all last night after Harry woke him up. There is something Harry doesn't like about the way the defeated dark lord is eyeing the entrails of the ship.

"Oi, you're not going to jump, are you?" Harry's pretty sure that's not the right thing to say to Riddle. But Merlin help him if he ever knows what the right thing say to that man is anymore. It used to be rather straightforward. 'I'm not afraid of you' and 'You're a pathetic whelp who will never know love' are easy sentiments to express. Now it's complicated.

" _Into the water?_ "

Harry blinks at him.

" _How droll. Although I wonder_ ," Riddle hisses calmly. " _What_ _would_ _happen if I did?_ "

Harry pretends to consider this. " _Well, you'd probably drown, get resurrected, drown again, so on and so forth. I'd get sent to limbo over and over again, which isn't pleasant at all …_ " Since when did Parseltongue come to him so naturally? He doesn't even need to picture a snake! Perhaps it's because he's having a very weird conversation with Snake-Face, who happens to be very much not snake-faced at the moment.

"Limbo – is that where you go …" Oops. Riddle's now fixing him with a somewhat hungry look. Harry replies hurriedly.

"It looks like the King's Cross Station, if you're interested. Depressing place, really. Dumbledore meets me there every time." Not that Riddle can deduce anything of use from this information.

" _Curious_." Is all Riddle says in response. " _Ah, that meddling old fool …_ "

"What are you fellows hissing about? On such a sunny day in that dreary part of the ship too?" The Captain hollers good-naturedly. "Come, come, the stargazing deck is much more pleasant."

The stargazing deck is the grandiose name Frost has christened the bow of the Windbreaker with. In truth, it is a comfy looking air mattress splayed out on the front deck – oddly pumping air into itself. The Captain promises that whenever the night is clear, he'll turn down the lights on the steamboat, and they can count all the stars in the world.

The bow boasts a much better view than the tail, Harry admits, without the colossal shadows cast by the twin chimneys. Skippy greets Harry with a bright 'auck' while eyeing Riddle with thinly veiled suspicion. Smart bird.

Riddle settles on the mattress like he owns it, stretched out rather contently under the sun. Harry joins Frost at the bow.

"How long does it take to reach Newfoundland, Captain?"

"It takes as long as you like." The Captain turns to him searchingly. "Are you in a hurry, my boy?"

Harry looks out from the bow. Oh, the colours! He wants to drink it all in and become a part of this … pureness. The little ship is bobbing along straight in the path of the morning sun. In front of them, the sea is shining platinum. The few patches of cloud cast unearthly shadows on the backdrop of a deep, serene blue, twirling and changing with the wind.

He turns around to check on Riddle, and finds him curled up and asleep, his features relaxed and his soft hair tousling slightly in the wind. This evil wizard can behave disturbingly like Crookshanks sometimes. And he looks so much more at peace than when he was cooped up in the hospital wing all day.

"You know what?" Harry says with a small smile. "I don't think we're in much of a hurry at all."

* * *

 _His beloved wand lies on the hardwood floor. He calls for it but it doesn't respond – why doesn't it respond? … He reaches out for his magic but his magic doesn't answer either … He's never been so scared … The one with the power to vanquish … Something's tearing him apart from the inside out. Memories flash by but they're all morphed and don't seem right and soon enough he can remember nothing but pain, pain, pain … Who am I? … He's sure he's screaming but there isn't a sound … He looks up and meets two killing curse green eyes …_

Someone is shaking him non-too-gently. Wait, how … ? He opens his eyes and is pulled into another reality. When the world comes into focus again, he stares into two green eyes, the exact same shade of green as the ones from the dream. His magic – he still can't feel his magic! He almost starts to panic -

 _The Potter brat_. He now recalls that he's still in a nightmare, only a living one. But he's too tired to even glare at the bane of his existence.

"You were at it again, Riddle." With that, Potter disappears into the dimness. Some part of him – just a tiny little part – wishes fiercely that the boy would stay and maybe talk so that he can know for sure what is real and what is not … He lets out a quiet sigh. Where did that thought come from? He doesn't need Potter for anything! The light is switched off with a soft click, and he is left alone with the darkness and the chaos that is his own mind.

* * *

Minutes and hours go by quickly on the Windbreaker despite not having much to do. Riddle stares – since when does he think of himself as Riddle? It's all that Potter brat's fault – the audacity! The boy has somehow made Lord Voldemort used to his old muggle name. But then he's back to the question: without his magic, who is he? _Riddle_ – enigma, puzzle, a conundrum that doesn't rhyme; he supposes it's fitting, as most of the time these days he can't seem to figure himself out. Every step in his life now is a dilemma, yet he feels he has no choice at all. So if the boy absolutely has to call him Riddle, then Riddle it is.

Regardless, he is sitting on his favourite spot on the stargazing deck, staring at the rain. A neat bit of magic on the Captain's part charmed the front deck to be rainproof, and it's quite a wonder to gaze at the heavy rain pouring down all around them, like water falls. It's peaceful. Makes him feel safe, somehow.

He's feeling better these past few days. Although his limbs are still shaky, he has a little more energy to spare, warmed by the sun and invigorated by the wind. Sure, he's fallen down a lot as the ship does its infernal dance in time with the waves – the Potter brat can laugh all he wants. He's managed to get up every time, hasn't he? From time to time, he still can't help but reach for his magic; when he comes up with nothing, he almost panics. He works so very hard to calm down every time. The sea certainly helps.

He's always loved the sea. When he was young and on those orphanage field trips, when the other blasted children frolicked along the coast, he would pick a quiet rock and just watch the sea for hours and hours. Usually a spot above a cliff, where beneath him angry waves splash on to the rocks again and again, relentless; where all he can hear and see and smell is the majesty of the ocean. Something so vast and so deep makes him feel so small. Rather uncharacteristically, he's always been fine with that – because what is everyone, from the poorest urchin to the grandest gentleman, compared to the greatness of the sea? Just _nothing_. For once, Tom Riddle is fine with being little and insignificant.

The only thing tainting his mood now is the boy sitting beside him. Potter is having a staring contest with a soggy piece of parchment, presumably a letter to his little friends. There are so many ink blobs and crossed out lines that Riddle pities whoever gets to read it.

"What are you staring at, Riddle?"

Salazar, someone's in a mood today. "Your handwriting is atrocious." He quips casually. The boy gives him a dark look.

"Noted. But at least I don't keep a diary." How does that have anything to do with…? Before he comes up with a reply, an impossibly large and utterly drenched eagle owl breaks through the pouring rain and lands on the mattress, splurging water everywhere. Damn bird.

"If there is one good thing about the Daily Prophet, it's their delivery system. You always get the paper." He offers as the bewildered teen carefully frees a scroll from the owl's left leg. The bird looks like he wants to eat the both of them.

"Oh. But I don't have a subscription. Someone must've sent it to me then …" Potter turns the paper, waterproof charmed, to the front page. "Oh! Look, news of your death …"

His curiosity piqued, he drags himself closer and reads over the boy's shoulder. The premium and idiotic paper of Wizarding Britain proclaims the Dark Lord's death in the infirmary and the Interim Minister's regret at the lack of a proper trial. Nonetheless, Shacklebolt promises severe but just punishment under the law for all the surviving ranks of the dark forces.

"This is strange." Potter comments when he's finished reading too. "I wonder how Kingsley gets away with it? No trials, no pictures, no anything!'

"So?"

"So – they were out for my blood because of Malfoy just days before! How can the public be okay with this?!"

"The public wants to _forget_. The average person doesn't want to dwell on the harder things, Potter, like war and laws. They eat up grand talks and good shows, but most of the time, they would rather have their heads in the sand, in the asinine routines of their daily lives."

"I suppose, yes … " The boy considers this for a while. "How does it feel? To officially not exist?" Potter finally asks with some levity.

"Some semblance of freedom." He mutters, unsure if the boy catches it.

* * *

It doesn't rain on their fourth afternoon at sea, but the clouds are looking a little unfriendly, and the sea is still a metallic grey. Riddle stares at some faraway place with the look of full concentration in his eyes. But Harry can see nothing but the clouds and sea and sky.

Harry stubbornly stews in his curiosity for a few minutes before he breaks.

"Just what are you looking at?"

"Shh – do you not hear it?"

"Hear what?" Harry asks, perplexed.

The former dark lord hisses impatiently. " _Be quiet and_ _listen_."

And Harry hears it. The most eerie and the most wonderful song he has ever heard. It's not seductive like the Merpeople's song, or bright and enlightening like Fawkes' trills. Yet it draws Harry in the way those sirens mesmerized sailors of old. It's an ode to the sea; Harry can understand the words but he can't quite repeat them. Something inside of him _knows_ this song.

"Isn't it simply amazing?" Riddle smiles – actually _smiles_ , not a sneer or a leer. "Sea serpents – normal humans can't hear their songs. But for us Speakers, it's music to our ears, no?"

Harry can only nod.

"They used to come to me when I was a child – when the orphanage took us out to the seaside once a year. Field trips or whatnot. We weren't allowed to swim, but the view was a treat enough – and _they_ would always sing to me." There is an inexplicable softness to Riddle's tone as he's caught up in his reminiscence. Chilling memories of a sea cave where the man hid his locket run through Harry's mind, but he's more interested in Riddle's story. "Curious, isn't it? These creatures can recognize a Speaker without hearing them speak. It's natural to them. They are ancient and magical, after all, far more so than the Basilisk. The sea serpents would sing to me about the wonders of the ocean, and I dreamed of going out there, being free."

"What do they look like?" Harry wonders.

Riddle tilts his head. "I don't really know... They never came close enough. But we should try; why not?" Before Harry realizes what he means, Riddle declares to the ocean, loud and proud.

" _I, heir of Salazar Slytherin, Greatest of the Founders Four, call on you, mighty serpents of the sea. Grace us with your presence and lead our way among the waves!"_

The next moment, to Harry's shock and fascination, the serpents' song grows louder. Closer. He can make out parts now, overlapping in a peculiar harmony. There is more than one!

"It's working?!" Harry grins in disbelief at his former enemy, then turns back to the sea. Feeling silly, he offers to the waves.

" _Eh, hi, I'm not heir to anyone … but this evil wizard gave me the ability to Speak … Could you fellows show yourselves? I really, really want to see …_ " He never gets the chance to finish.

A huge wave breaks free of the surface, and green scales crashes down with a splash. The next moment, it's happening all around them, long and elegant bodies weaving in and out of white waves, a hypnotizing dance to the ocean songs.

Frost chooses this particular moment to emerge from the guts of the ship. " … told me and that is what I said to him – MERLIN'S KINCKERS!" Whatever the Captain has been carrying drops to the ground with a loud clink, but Harry doesn't have a glance to spare. He's much too busy gaping at the giant serpent that's currently arched over their little steamship.

Harry has no words to describe the creature; no words can be adequate. Sunlight reflects off the gleaming green scales, and it's simply beautiful. Breathtaking. The sea serpent is twice as large as a Basilisk but nothing like the foul Slytherin monster. Its large eyes are a pure amber in the sun, shining with an ancient wisdom. If this is the ruler of the sea, it would be just right, thinks Harry. Icy seawater drenches the deck as the serpent plunges into the sea on the other side of the steamboat, a breathtaking arch over the azure sky, and none of the three men moves even as they're steadily soaked.

"Marvellous …" Riddle breathes, his blue eyes gleaming with excitement, for once joyful instead of malicious. Harry can't help but stare.

"For Merlin's sake … I thought these … I've only heard legends!" The Captain exclaims, apparently too shaken to speak coherently. Harry doesn't even attempt to. The serpents are now leading their way to the east, duly complying with the last true Parselmouth's command. Skippy, that cocky gull, flies way ahead at full speed, engaging in a game of tag with the mighty serpents. They keep looping back for the little boat to catch up with their incredible speed, but gradually the humans fall behind as the song grows fainter.

Even as the last glimpse of green scales disappears under the waves, Harry is still in a trance. Funnily enough, he can't tell whether he's more mesmerized by the ancient serpents of the oceans or his archenemy who's still wearing that childishly content grin beside him.

* * *

The nightmare situation goes on for three nights straight before Harry can't stand it anymore. Switching on one of the cabin lights, he shakes Riddle awake as usual. He then takes a seat casually on the lower bunk, waiting for his bleary-eyed enemy to notice his unexpected presence.

"Talk to me." Harry demands calmly.

"… What?"

"Talk to me – about what haunts you every night, what scares the biggest and baddest dark wizard of the century so … " Harry keeps his tone pleasant. "About anything at all. What _do_ you dream about?"

Riddle fixes him with a glare. It's not menacing at all given how tired he looks. "Ah, go away, brat." Harry doesn't move. "I don't remember those dreams, all right? And what makes you think I'd ever talk to _you_ about anything?"

"But it'll make you feel better; I'm almost a hundred percent certain." Harry explains mock sweetly.

Riddle answers with a sneer. " _Feel_ better? I'll have you know, Potter, I don't _do_ your brand of emotions, or what you weaklings call _feelings_. So scamper off while you can."

"You see: it's funny." Harry counters with cool confidence. " _I don't think that's true._ "

Riddle's gaze sharpens alarmingly, all lazy humour gone. Sitting up slowly so he's on eye-level with Harry, he looks every bit as dangerous as the serpentine-faced dark lord Harry used to know. "Excuse me?" Riddle repeats his earlier question, voice cold as ice.

"I used to think that you couldn't feel, but I was wrong, wasn't I?" Harry goes on, words pouring out despite the underlying threat Riddle's making. Whatever happened to not knowing what to say to him? "You feel as strongly as anyone. So strongly, in fact, smart kid that you were, you reckoned it was safer not to feel anything at all, didn't you? You made yourself into a psychopath so you'd never get hurt again. But even if you are the greatest Occlumens in the world, even if you can protect your mind from anyone, you can't protect it against your own subconscious, can you?

"I'm not judging, I promise. It's just –" Harry finishes faintly. "It's really sad." And he immediately knows he's touched a nerve.

"I don't need your pity, Potter! Not to mention your supposed _understanding_!" Riddle snarls, his voice high, almost trembling. "How dare you imagine you can understand me, Lord Voldemort? You're nothing but a boy, and a weak and stupid one at that! And I don't need to talk to you, or anybody else! I've never needed - " He pauses to draw in a breath. "I've never talked to anyone. Nobody ever cared anyway!" Then his eyes widen as he realizes what he just said. Riddle backs away violently until he hits the wall, incredulous that he let out that one sentence too many. With wild eyes and flaring nostrils, the fallen dark lord much resembles a wounded, feral animal.

Harry regards his archenemy thoughtfully. As usual, whenever he's overcome with strong emotions, Riddle's eyes gleam an eerie red even in the dimness of the cabin. However, the customary malice isn't quite there. In those crimson eyes, Harry can see certain emotions that he would rather not recognize. It so reminds him of the hurting infant he meets at Not-King's-Cross …

At this point, Harry decides to act on an idea that may or may not end very badly – after all, every lonely child, however secretly, wants to be loved.

"Come here." He says softly, moving closer to the huddled figure and extending an arm. A sharp hiss is his response.

" _What is the meaning of this?_ " Riddle flinches away and looks like he wants to flee – except that he's backed up against the corner already.

Harry moves in even closer. He makes his body language abundantly clear but patiently waits for Riddle to take the last step and meet him halfway – exactly how Hagrid taught them to make contact with timid, distrustful animals. Miraculously, after what seems like a lifetime, the former dark lord moves in cautiously until Harry has an arm around his bony shoulders. He can't help but chuckle a little.

"That's right. I'm offering you comfort. Call it base, primitive, whatever. Accepting it won't kill you, see?"

At this, Riddle scowls but gingerly lays his head down on Harry's shoulder, his posture still rigid enough to betray his nervousness. Harry brings his other arm to loosely wrap around the thin frame, taking care to keep his hold not too constricting. The brief patches of pale skin he touches is once again clammy and cold, but this time he doesn't find it revolting.

"I bet you've never risked trusting anyone." Harry muses half to himself. "Maybe none of them has been worth trusting. Maybe you've just been too much of a paranoid arse to see a true friend when you meet one. Merlin, I wish I could –" Then he stops himself before he can say something truly embarrassing. The next morning's bound to be awkward enough as it is.

To distract himself, Harry takes to playing with Riddle's dark brown curls. Funny that however impeccably this megalomaniac wore his hair back in his school days, his coils turn out to be as unruly as Harry's at night. At some point, the body Harry's holding relaxes. After a good while, it even grows heavy as Riddle's breathing evens out. Harry very carefully lays his sleeping arch nemesis down before returning to his own bunk, having experienced the strangest night he's had in a long, long time.

* * *

 **A/N: Here you go - another long one! I don't believe my words did the Atlantic justice, but I did the best I could!**

 **Also, the character/relationship development in this chapter doesn't feel weird, does it?**

 **Would love to know your opinion!**


	12. Chapter 12

The next morning, Harry finds Riddle dressed and seated on the stargazing deck. They greet each other stiffly, with more cautious politeness than there ever existed between these sworn enemies. Neither is the least bit inclined to mention what transpired the night before.

"Ah, lads, there you are!" Captain Frost's deep bass breaks the calm of the morning. "We're docking in about an hour, just so you know. Skippy did a recon flight for us just now. Didn't you, Skippy?"

The seagull familiar chirps merrily in agreement.

"It's a fine day at port, fine day at port." The Captain muses, taking up a pair of ancient-looking binoculars. Harry turns to Riddle.

"So, uh … we're meeting my relatives in a while." He swallows. "As far as I know, they're nice people, and I don't believe anyone here will recognize you … so we should be fine? If you, well, behave …" Since when has it become so hard to talk to the former dark lord?

And the polite charade is gone. "Behave? That's rich coming from you, Potter, since you possess no etiquette whatsoever!" Riddle bristles, playing the part where he should be indignant. Truth is, his mind is still stuck on an infinite loop over last night's events, trying to figure them out.

What happened the night before between him and that brat was … interesting. A dozen emotions run through him, but he is _intrigued_ above all else. By all means, he should be mortified – falling asleep in the arms of his greatest enemy, imagine that! If someone told Lord Voldemort that such a thing would happen two months ago, he would laugh until he weeps and most probably _Crucio_ said someone to death. He should be furious at himself for permitting that brat to get so … close. But Potter was right – it wasn't unpleasant, that basest form of comfort. No one has touched him like that in decades; no one ever did when he was a child. It brought a warmth that no warming charm can quite produce. He slept better in the latter half of the night than he's done in a very long time. So what if he allowed himself a moment of weakness last night?

Besides, he reasons, mostly he was curious as to what Potter was getting at, offering comfort to him out of all people. Is the brat's hero complex so immense and twisted that he has to save even his long-time enemy? Whatever game Potter was playing, he wouldn't be the one to play chicken.

As for what Potter said about his feelings … It was somewhat surprising.

He did lose his cool there, he admits, but to be fair, he was exhausted and arguably not in his right mind – it won't happen again. Potter knows everything yet nothing at all.

As it is, the greatest question leads him back to the mystery that is Harry Potter. What does the boy want? Why on earth is he the least bit kind to him – what was with all these visits in the hospital wing, these readings of that dratted newspaper, these gentle walks along the Black Lake … Why is he here, breathing in fresh air on a little ship going far, far away instead of rotting for the rest of his cursed life in a prison cell somewhere?

Even without Legilimency, he's always been deft at reading people, but right now he can't read Harry Potter's motives at all. Is it pity? Pity for his defeat, for his weak physical state, for his childhood sob stories? Potter certainly didn't hide his pity after his rather pathetic encounter with the Dementors. But last night … last night didn't feel like pity. It felt like the boy _cared_ , and that's simply ludicrous, isn't it?

The Captain puts down his binoculars and points to the distance.

"You spot that, Tom? The tip of the Cape. They've got a new lighthouse there now."

Sure enough, he follows the Captain's line of sight and a tiny blot of land comes into view. Cape Spear, his mind supplies, the easternmost point of this continent. He used to pour over the world atlas at the muggle public library, dreaming of exploring new and fantastic places – a life worth living. And now as the land draws nearer, a glimmer of hope that's been absent for the past weeks rises up in his chest.

Perhaps this is how the likes of Columbus and Magellan felt when they finally, after harrowing sea journeys, laid eyes on a new land, a New World. Perhaps this feeling is what makes it all worth it, more so than promises of wealth and nobility.

As his eyes make out the tiny lighthouse on the high point of the Cape, the man who used to call himself Lord Voldemort smiles. Maybe this is the new world for him. Maybe here he can start over. Maybe this land holds his next great adventure, and he doesn't have to count the days until the end.

So if being nice to Potter's relatives is what it takes … Well, he'll do it. His so-called charm and good looks is all he has left anyway.

* * *

"There's one more thing." Harry suddenly remembers. Good thing he does too. "Your eyes … They might, you know, give away who you are." Riddle's eyes are mostly blue today, with the tiniest shade of crimson dancing on the edge of his irises. But still, any wizard should be able to tell that this is a magical mutation; some might even recognize this as a curious side effect of practicing the Dark Arts.

"And what do you propose, Potter?"

"A glamour? I can cast it for you." Harry says quickly. "Hermione usually takes care of this kind of spells, but I should have no problem with it. It should hold for half a day, at least."

Riddle gives him a somewhat calculating look before turning nonchalant. "Go on then."

Harry moves to sit down in front of him, leaving only an arm's length between them. "All right. Hold still." He is a little nervous, somehow. Harry realizes he hasn't done magic in front of Riddle since the Final Battle, and this time it's a very different spell he's casting. He'd rather do it right the first time. Honing his concentration with a deep breath, Harry takes out his wand and mutters " _Dissimulo locorum_."

The next second, Riddle jerks away violently, wild emotions flickering through his features - pain, anger, disbelief … The glamour spell is not a hard one to cast and should hurt no more than a slight tingle. Thoroughly perplexed, Harry is suddenly quite scared that he's somehow messed up. As Riddle settles on staring at Harry's right hand with rage and craving, the teen realizes what is wrong.

The wand he's holding, yew, phoenix core, belonged – belongs? – to the disgraced dark lord in front of him.

"Was it Lucius?" Riddle asks with a deadly calm that doesn't fit with his expression at all. "I've always known that slimy –"

"It was Draco, actually." Harry corrects, trying to keep his voice even as well. He hurries to pocket the wand, as if afraid that Riddle would snatch it out of his hand. "But he only showed me the door, and he didn't have a choice, really. I forced him."

Riddle stares at him for a long moment, and when he speaks again, he can't hide the tremor in his voice anymore. "What right do you –"

"Well, I won the duel!" Harry refutes rather lamely.

And Riddle loses it altogether. "Then the Elder Wand is yours! Isn't that enough, Potter? But this wand is mine; _mine_ , do you understand? It _chose_ me, long before your worthless parents were even born! How could you –" He stops to draw in a shaky breath, and then lets out a hollow, absolutely chilling laugh. "It's poetic, isn't it? Even my fucking wand has betrayed me!"

Harry knows that at this moment whatever fragile, dysfunctional truce they've got going on is shattered, but he is too angry to care.

"Your wand hasn't betrayed you, Riddle." He replies coldly. "It allows me to wield it because I have your magic– you gave it to me when you killed my parents and tried to kill me, remember? As for loyalty … You should've thought of that when you cast your real wand away and lusted after the Deathstick. The price you pay for power, eh?"

Silver-blues still bear into him with that hungry intensity, but Riddle doesn't say anything. Silently, he slips off of the mattress, and promptly stumbles as the ship crashes down from a particularly large wave. Harry doesn't offer a helping hand as he's done so often in the past weeks. Vehemently, Riddle pushes himself up on shaky limbs, and disappears into the belly of the steamboat.

* * *

Harry dreads the docking like a prisoner awaiting trial. He hasn't seen Riddle since their quite spectacular row, not even when he got down to the cabin to finish packing up. What dark corner is that bastard brooding in now?

And their argument … how unfortunate that it should happen now!

Yet he thought – how wrong he was – he thought that something, however subtle, has shifted between them over the past weeks; that Riddle has somehow _changed_. And last night … what the heck was last night anyway? Harry resolves not to think about it. Last night was bonkers. It makes his brain hurt. And Riddle remains the self-centred madman who thinks everyone is out to get him, as always.

And now Riddle certainly won't play nice anymore, will he? If he does anything stupid, anything suspicious at all, the Aurors are only one fire call away. And Harry can already see the headlines, the mobs, how everything goes to Hell in a handcart … He doesn't want to go to Azkaban! Harry Potter has always jumped headlong into reckless endeavours, but this time he's quite outdone himself.

But he doesn't ask the Captain to turn around, and they've passed the Narrows into the harbour already. Skippy lands on the railing beside Harry merrily, looking rather smug that they've made it to port, thanks to his navigation skills.

"You think everything's gonna be alright, pal?" The gull 'aucks' once, as if in affirmation. Harry chuckles.

"Oh I wish I had your confidence, Skip." He reaches out a hand, and Skippy pecks it gently. Harry's going to miss this seagull something fierce, oddly enough.

With a soft thud, the Windbreaker makes contact with the rubber dock bumpers, and a docker deftly catches the ropes and ties down the steamboat. Riddle has appeared out of nowhere, his hair once again impeccably neat and his expression the epitome of indifference. Glamoured blue eyes bear into Harry's, yet the teen can't figure out a smidgen of what his archenemy is thinking about.

The bridge is lowered in no time, and Harry lets out an anxious sigh. All right, here goes.

A man and a woman stand side by side on the dock, smiling brightly at the passengers of the Windbreaker. Curiously enough, they're in muggle clothes, but Harry can immediately sense the magic rolling off of them - strong magic, feels sort of like his own – and he doesn't have a doubt as to who these people are.

Desmond and Erin Potter aren't exactly what Harry expected. For one, they're blond – not the Malfoy kind of blond, but close enough. It seems that the Potter ancestral curse of wild black hair hasn't carried over across the ocean… Moreover, his cousins are much younger than Harry envisioned. It's probably the way they wrote in the letters – darn pureblood etiquette. Harry imagined his well-versed relatives to be at least in their forties.

In truth, Desmond is an energetic young man who has a smile that says he doesn't have a care in the world. He looks about Riddle's physical age – whatever that is. Harry isn't great at placing wizards' ages anyway – looks can be deceiving. Erin, on the other hand, can't be much older than Harry.

The young lady pulls Harry into a quick embrace – pureblood or not, it seems they do this greeting thing very differently here. "Oh, Harry! Thank Merlin you're here – Desmond hasn't shut up about you coming since we got your letter." Erin grins at her brother mischievously. "He's wanted a kid brother forever. I tried my best to keep him entertained, but it's just not the same, you get me? Some things one can only do with boys. I say you're in for a wild ride, kiddo…"

" _The_ Harry Potter on our shores, can you imagine that!" Desmond shakes Harry's hand with incredible vigour. Not another fame-digger, Harry almost groans. But what Desmond says next is completely unexpected. "Son of that little rascal, James Potter!"

"You know James Potter?"

"But of course – "

"You don't really know him, Des." Erin interrupts her brother.

" – but of course." Desmond finishes stubbornly. "I've never met him myself, before my time and everything, but he's a _legend_ around here. Stayed here for one summer with that friend of his, the Black heir, and they turned the town upside down with their tricks." Desmond lowers his voice confidentially. "I still wouldn't go down to the Potter Manor basement if I were you. Booby traps, tons of them."

"Anyway," Erin takes over, smiling." We heard that James had a son who looked just like him, and we've all been wondering what a troublemaker he's turned into. But I must say, Harry, you look much too upstanding …"

Harry grins – far, far better to be famous for being a Marauder's son than vanquisher of the freakin' Dark Lord. "Oh, Erin, you should've seen the detentions they used to hand to me …" After all, he does have several choice products from Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes in his trunk.

Harry lets out a laugh, but he can't help but look back at Riddle with a little anxiety, uncertain how the other man will act.

Following his line of sight, Erin glances at Riddle, who's been standing back and watching the exchange patiently, and shares a look with Desmond. Both blush a little as their excitement at meeting Harry has made them remiss in the reception of a guest.

"Oh, how rude of us!" The young witch stretches out a slender hand to the dark lord in disguise, her smile turning a bit more demure - like a good pureblooded witch should when meeting a young man for the first time. "I'm Erin Potter. Welcome to St. Johns, Mr. …?"

Harry watches with equal parts fascination and mortification as a warm grin lights up Riddle's clear-cut features. "Tom Riddle, at your service." The darkest wizard of the century takes Erin's hand with an impossible gentleness, bowing deeply until he can mock-kiss the back of her hand. His movements are smooth and his posture natural, blue eyes shining with an intensity as if he has only the lady he's greeting in his sight and nothing more. Lucius Malfoy couldn't have done it better; wouldn't even come close to this level of suave.

"You're such a gentleman, Mr. Riddle!" Erin giggles, completely taken. Harry has a funny feeling in his stomach. It turns out that even his illness and unnatural gauntness haven't taken away the infamous Tom Riddle charm.

That's good. At least, better than Voldemort being his murderous megalomaniac self and landing them both in Azkaban … right?

"Please call me Tom. And I'll call you Erin, if I may? Such a lovely name …" Riddle insists, leaning in a little as if sharing a secret. Erin eats it right up, and Harry can't blame her – any young lady would.

Desmond moves to shake Riddle's hand. "An honour to meet you, Mr. Riddle. You must be Harry's …?"

"We met in the war." Harry offers quickly. He'll try not to lie. "He … Well, let's just say we were both in need of a change in scenery." Let them infer what they will from that.

"All right then." Desmond nods in understanding. "Let's show Harry and Tom the other Potter house, shall we? I mean, you would want to live there, right, Harry?"

"Sure, Desmond. Just one moment …"

Belatedly, Harry turns around to say goodbye to Captain Frost and Skippy, but the mysterious duo and their dingy little Windbreaker have already disappeared without a trace. No turning back now, the Boy-Who-Lived smiles a little ruefully. Thus starts their adventure in the New World.

* * *

 **A/N: Here, Riddle has some of his "powers" back! In the next chapters, you'll see more of him charming and cajoling the good people of St. John's, Newfoundland. I've got reviewers saying they wanna see him get his magic back. That will happen, promise, but I prefer to have him figure out who he is as a person first :)**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: I'm baaaack!**

 **And I swear this hasn't been a case of severe writer's block, honest. I've known what to put in this chapter since ages ago. It's just that I have not had a single week without at least one "midterm" since the third week of school, and what little time I had for creativity I've been indulging my other outlandish ideas. Check out my new HP stories, _A Little Thing_ and _A Theory of Everything Else_! :D**

 **Now onto this very long chapter.**

* * *

Chapter Thirteen

"So … what do you think?" Erin asks sweetly.

"Well," Harry hesitates, hoping he's not coming across as rude. Or worse, ungrateful. It's Desmond's who's been up-keeping the property all these years, and he's done a good job at it. "It's – I mean, I really like it, but – it's a little too _big_ , isn't it?"

The Potter Manor in St. John's, Newfoundland is _a lot_ too big, if Harry is being honest. The entire estate rests in the shelter of a shallow valley very close to the city centre, with a garden large enough to host an expedition. The manor itself can easily house half of the Hogwarts population. When they enter spotless halls, the entire house reverberates with their footsteps, warped echoes of their voices bouncing off the cold walls, making the entire experience non-too-pleasant despite the opulence. Two house elves have been taking care of the estate – their names are Merry and Pippin, and Erin apologizes half-heartedly for her brother's naming choices for the servants. They bow deeply and reverently before "Master Harry Potter".

In short, the Manor is everything Harry dislikes about British pureblood society. Living here wouldn't be any more pleasant than in 12 Grimmauld Place, and Harry starts to second-guess his move across the Atlantic.

Erin makes a face at her brother. "See, Des? Told you we should just show him the Lighthouse. Who would want to live _here_? This place is a freakin' museum - a museum with booby traps." So they turn tail and climb back onto Desmond's car.

Desmond Potter drives a flamboyant red Jeep – Sahara, it says on the side of the vehicle. One should've guessed, Harry muses. At least it's not a large black motorcycle that roars through the air.

They take the highway out of the suburbs, not so busy any more now that it's past the muggle rush hour. Erin shares with them the stories of her college life – oddly enough, she goes to the muggle university in St. John's and works on a degree in history. That's what quite a lot of magical kids here do, Erin explains, before they make up their minds on what they will do as a living. Harry finds that concept fascinating while Erin shamelessly spins tales of her Friday night escapades. Riddle asks her all the right questions about her studies and that makes her light up even more. Whether the former dark lord is genuinely interested, Harry isn't quite sure.

Fifty-something minutes and one hip-hop playlist later, they pull up at the foot of a rather steep hill right on the side of the ocean. A most peculiar structure sits on top of the cliff, with a thin, winding path leading up to it.

Harry has seen castles and manors but this small house on top of the cliff takes his breath away. Half brick, half glass – if Harry was asked to design a house that's half brick, half glass, he'd probably come up with some miss-matched monstrosity, but not this, no – this is a bloody piece of art.

"This is the other property that's been passed down in your line, Harry." Desmond explains, suddenly sounding sheepish.

"The Lighthouse?" Riddle raises an eyebrow, pointing to the elegant sign by the driveway.

"Oh that." Erin chuckles. "It's not really a lighthouse – well, it probably was, way back then, before William Potter bought it on a whim. They say it's a dare from his brother Charlus … Well, we call it the Lighthouse mainly because it's kind of lonely out here – nothing around but the sea, yeah?"

They look back from the top of the rock, and all they see is greenery and seawater lakes and other little peaks, miles and miles on end and not a soul in sight.

"It's peaceful." Riddle remarks, still smiling. Harry eyes him funny, but cannot disagree.

They hike up the path, a fine ocean breeze their constant companion. The stylish glass door swings open on its own accord, welcoming home the house's true owner. Soft sunlight stream through the living room from the four glass walls, serene and magical. The secondary bedroom on the first floor is a cozy den overlooking the ocean, while the master bedroom up high in the original lighthouse structure boasts a revolving skylight and three-sixty degree views. Harry must've looked incredulous, for Desmond is more than a little flustered as he plays the real estate agent.

"The house was so run-down a couple of years ago that we had – we had to hire a contractor to rebuild it, you know, and well – well, he's quite the fan of modern art – _muggle_ modern art, that is …"

Harry smiles brightly at Desmond, lest his distant cousin becomes even more embarrassed. "This place is perfect." This place is bold and quaint and beautiful. This place can feel like home, and a home is all Harry's wanted since he was five years old and sleeping in a cupboard under the stairs. When he remembers whom he'll be sharing this home with, it dims his enthusiasm a little.

But just a little.

/

The boy and he stand alone in the living room of the peculiar little house, the blond Potter relatives finally gone. He lets his friendly façade drop as Potter regards him with apprehension and … concern?

"Uh …" Potter opens his mouth, starts to say something, then closes it again. He's been doing a lot of that lately – not the most eloquent of the bunch.

"What is it, Potter?" He mocks, keeping his voice cold and biting. "Was I … _well-behaved_?" How he enjoys watching the boy squirm.

"Um –" Potter does that goldfish imitation again. "Yes – I mean, you were, uh – Erin and Desmond wouldn't suspect a thing, of course. In fact –"

The boy sighs in exasperation. "In fact, what I mean is – is - you don't have to be my prisoner here." He laughs; Potter looks startled, but he continues.

"It doesn't have to be like that." The boy meets his eyes now, seemingly have found his resolve. "But … just one moment."

Potter raises his wand – _his_ wand – to the ceiling and calls out. "Kreacher!" A soft pop, and arguably the ugliest house elves Riddle has ever had the misfortune to lay eyes on flashes into existence, grudgingly bowing to his teenage master – Riddle recognizes a reluctant servant when he sees one.

"Kreacher." _Kreacher? It sounds familiar, somehow …_ "I have a job for you. Would you watch over –" The ugly elf turns his large head, following Potter's line of sight until he sees Riddle.

Large yellow eyes lock on his own, and realization hit both man and creature like lightning. The elf lets out a blood-curdling scream and Riddle's hands fly up to his ears, suddenly flooded by sounds, emotions, images – Regulus, seawater, Amy Benson, a cave, bloated corpses, Dumbledore, his locket gone, broken, his snake dead, screaming, the elf screaming, himself screaming … The onslaught of _painragefear_ floors him like a hurricane and he doesn't realize he's dropped to the ground, clutching his head as the irrational part of himself consumes him – until strong hands grasp his shoulders and shake him vigorously.

"Riddle. Riddle! Snap out of it!" For a moment, it's awfully quiet – there's no screaming in the background any more, and he forgets where he is. Then he opens his eyes and stare into the familiar greens of the Potter boy.

This boy – the Boy-Who-Lived, the savior, the one who's damaged him irrevocably more than anyone else, acting like he's the bigger man, like he can bloody _reform_ his prisoner, like he's asking for penance from someone like _him_ …

Disgusted, Riddle scrambles away as if scorched, ducking into his assigned bedroom as if the devil was on his heels. Slamming the thin wooden door, he presses his back against it, panting, willing himself to calm down.

Everything. The boy has taken away his everything. His horcruxes, his wand, his magic … Yet Potter keeps him alive and he's playing a dangerous game.

He hears the brat walk around in the living room. "Kreacher! That's enough – I need you to watch over Riddle and make sure he doesn't get any funny ideas. Can you do that?" The damnable creature screeches something indiscernible.

"He doesn't have his magic." Potter explains. Bitterness and rage threaten to burn up in his veins again.

"But you are not allowed to hurt him, either, you get it? Not for revenge, not for anything … Kreacher, you must promise." Riddle snorts. As if the boy cared …

The boy has taken away everything. But _he_ would have his revenge, and Potter will curse his own bleeding heart one day. He needs a plan, he needs people he can manipulate, he needs to stop hiding in his room, shaking like a pathetic fool … he needs his magic. He will get his magic back – he has to – then Potter's darn relatives and his blasted elf wouldn't be a problem anymore, wouldn't even be worth concerning himself over … Then he'll have his revenge.

Now first, he should go about acquiring a wand …

/

The first few days are uncomfortable.

It's nothing on the house – the Lighthouse is lovely. So are the surroundings. Living here feels like living in Paradise. The first few days, Harry contents himself with exploring the small muggle village of Witless Bay and grinding out a sentence at a time for his requisite letters to Ron, Hermione, and Kingsley.

It's not even his runaway magic that bothers him. Having left the thrilling sea-faring life on the Windbreaker, Harry's errant magic is acting up again, breaking vases and blowing out lights at the most inopportune moments. It's completely illogical; it hasn't happened in _years_ ; adult wizards are not _supposed_ to have accidental magic! Riddle fixed him with such a calculating gaze that Harry had the sudden urge to crawl out of his own skin.

Nonetheless, it's mainly his brooding housemates that Harry has problems with. Kreacher lurks, although how one can lurk in a two-bedroom structure is beyond Harry. The elf does it anyway, muttering dark secrets to himself, scaring the wits out of Harry whenever the teen doesn't pay attention to where he's going. But at least Kreacher does what he's supposed to do and keeps a tight eye on Riddle.

Riddle … Riddle can suck out the light in the room as well as a Dementor. Now, Harry lived with the Dursleys for more than ten years; he's used to being ignored completely one moment then snarled at like the bane of one's existence the other. But he's also been a Gryffindor for seven; the Lions are gregarious and caring and touchy-feely while Riddle is everything but. Harry understands perfectly that the former dark lord has a death wish for both himself and the Boy-Who-Lived. It creeps him out that he can't tell which of these Riddle wants more.

But when Desmond and Erin come around the Lighthouse on Saturday afternoon offering them a drive into Magical St. Johns, Riddle is all charm and smiles again.

Wizarding St. Johns, as it turns out, is nothing like Diagon Alley, which is segregated altogether from muggle London. This town, instead, winds up the busy muggle street named Duckworth along the inner harbor until it merges into the small seaside village, Quidi Vidi.

"Quidi Vidi: what I saw." Riddle comments slyly. "Intriguing. More like what they don't see."

Harry, too, is entranced by the amount of charms and spellwork that must have gone into maintaining a magical town right in a muggle city. Indeed, muggle cars rush through the streets unperturbed, completely unaware of the bustling wizarding township a few feet away, while magical folks swarm in and out of shops and businesses of every kind. There are couples laughing, miniature brooms racing one another outside what Harry assumes to be a Quidditch store, children comparing Chocolate Frog cards in front of a sweets shop; the picture perfect magical town centre.

Then Harry realizes what's off about these people – nobody's wearing robes! And here he thought it was only his peculiar cousins – Erin, who wants to fit in with her muggle classmates, and Desmond, who is probably just lazy.

Harry voices his observation, to which Desmond replies, quite scandalized. "Robes? Why on earth would you want to be stuck in one of those ghastly things? Unless you are old and boring and running for City Council!"

If Riddle finds his pureblood traditions offended, he hides it very well. In fact, the dark wizard appears intent on hearing everything there is to know about Erin's research paper on the French Revolution while the young witch is more than happy to share since the Potter boys don't seem interested.

So they walk on, like four normal friends out for a Saturday after-lunch stroll, which makes it all so surreal.

And the carefree optimism in the air, it's simply amazing. Diagon Alley after the fall of the dark side is filled with the hustle bustle of the common life as well, but it's not quite same as before the war started, when Harry visited the place for the first time as a wide-eyed first-year. Yet here, here it's like the war never happened. Harry immediately decides that he likes this town immensely.

"The green one is the bank?" Harry asks a little dumbly, after Erin's pointed to every one of the jellybean row houses. No sooner has he finished his questions do these houses change colors all at once. Harry groans.

"How about 'the one with the sign B-A-N-K on it is the bank', Harry?" Desmond smirks teasingly.

Harry glares at his cousin, petulant. "Well, pardon me! And the really grisly one that was blue and is now red – that's the Aurors' office, where you work?"

"The St. John's Sentinels." Desmond corrects him. "But yeah, that's where they lock me up three afternoons a week and coerce me into doing paperwork." Harry shakes his head, feeling distinctly sorry for the Sentinel that has to babysit Desmond, who looks like he cannot sit still for more than five seconds.

Three wizards dressed in plaid and jeans – _plaid and jeans!_ \- stand around one street corner, looking incredibly muggle with red Styrofoam coffee cups in their hands. They call Desmond by his name and Harry's cousin greets them back. Meet Harry Potter, the other Potter heir, he says. Harry, meet Peter, Brian, and Old Man Jansen.

"Aren't you a war hero or something?" The oldest of the three men – Jansen - asks bluntly.

Harry nearly groans out loud. Just when he thought he'd have a break …!

"… My grandson writes to me from England – he's an apprentice there, astronomy and whatnot, and he's been telling me all about this war and this dark wizard who wants to take over Europe …" The old man goes on, completely ignoring Harry's plight. "Again! Can you believe that? You would think those lot had learned their lesson since that old fool Grindelwald!" Harry nods mechanically. He chances a glance at his archenemy, standing next to the old man and adamantly refusing to meet his eyes.

"What was it like?" Peter asks.

"What was…?"

"The war – how was the war?" The man clarifies, still cheerful, as if he was asking after a Quidditch game instead of a war. Desmond's looking at Harry, thoughtful. Riddle is staring at Brian's shirt buttons a little too intently. Harry sighs.

"We won."

"You did, didn't you?" Jansen suddenly claps Harry on the back, nearly making him lurch. "Well, good going, lad! Ought to teach those arrogant dark lords a lesson …"

Desmond chuckles heartily at Harry's absolute bewilderment. "Shocking, isn't it – how little outside news we concern ourselves with? We've never really been bothered with silly things like wars. Ask around, and I bet you half of the people here don't know who Lord Voldemort was …"

And that suits Harry just fine.

The rest of the afternoon, they spend Harry's fortune on everything he didn't have the chance to bring from home. By the time they get back to the Lighthouse, the sun is sinking and Erin ducks into the second-floor study to type up a storm on this book report she's cramming for. Harry smiles at her panic knowingly. Riddle sneaks back to his room, obviously exhausted – either from physical exertion or from being nice all day.

"Is your friend all right?" Desmond broaches the topic as they're standing on the second-floor balcony of the Lighthouse, simply admiring the sunset. Desmond has probably seen this kind of scenery more times than he can count, but his eyes still shine with childish wonder as they watch the sun paint the ocean orange – until he turns to Harry and his expression turns serious.

"Hmm?"

"Your friend – Tom – he seems …" Desmond grapples for words, clearly afraid to offend. "A little under the weather, if you don't mind me saying."

Oh. "Uh, well, the war took a lot out of him. Some wounds you don't heal from …" Harry offers meekly, playing the wise guy, all the while stopping himself from touching the lightning bolt etched in on his forehead.

"I get it." Desmond nods. "People get hurt in wars, and they never recover." Something in his voice makes Harry pause.

"I thought you Newfoundland wizards didn't bother with wars." Harry remarks softly.

"My grandfather." Desmond explains. "True, most of us couldn't care less about wars, but my grandfather was an odd one. He went to fight in the last Grindelwald war because, well, all his muggle buddies were off to fight against the Nazis, and it was supposed to be this grand adventure but – many of his muggle friends didn't come back. He did, but he was a changed man; everyone could see that. My grandma used to tell us stories … Sometimes we never recover."

"But we learn to cope." Harry states wholeheartedly. "We _have to_ ; otherwise, those who gave their lives died in vain."

Desmond gives him a joking slap on the shoulder. "You are a deep one for an eighteen-year-old, you know that?"

Harry laughs heartily. Then Desmond turns a little more serious again.

"But Tom's lucky, I have to say, to have a great friend like you …"

Harry chokes back a snort and swallows his snickers, pretending to be flustered because of the compliment. "Oh, Desmond, come on!" _He doesn't know half of it_ ... And Harry can't stop thinking about the young wizard who went to war simply because all his muggle buddies did.

/

Pickpocketing old man Jansen was easy. Funny how he still has the stealth and aim of a street urchin, even though he hasn't lowered himself to petty theft in years. But it didn't bother him; someone else has something he desperately wants, and if stealing is the only way to get it, then so be it. Convenience always trumps dignity – and he doesn't have much of the latter these days anyway.

Riddle stands on the small cliff directly below the larger one that supports his current lodging, the Lighthouse a glowing presence behind him, illuminating the area just enough so that he can make out the cracks in the ground and the white waves crashing against the shore. There are no stars in the sky tonight despite the sensational sunset they had – the weather here seems to be as ridiculously fickle as Fate itself.

Carefully, he takes out the wand he snatched from the bumbling Newfoundland wizard. Quite a nice one – supple, perfect for charms – probably wasted on someone like Jansen. He swishes it once. Nothing happens. He doesn't _feel_ anything. He fights hard to drive away the unease in his stomach that's there as surely as the thick blanket of clouds covering the dome tonight …

Deep breath. Focus. A simple spell. You can do this …

He closes his eyes, imagining a warm current of pure energy flowing through his body, through each of his veins into his fingertips. He imagines he can grasp a tendril of this warmth and direct it to his will, like he should, like he's done a hundred thousand times before –

" _Lumos_."

– and nothing. When he opens his eyes, he's still greeted by a thick darkness, the ocean and the cloudy sky merging as one murky monstrosity. The waves still crash against the shore relentlessly, laughing, laughing … And something inside of him cracks.

Of course … the moment he touched the wand, it didn't … but he's hoped, he's hoped against hope that maybe -

Maybe he's a fool. Maybe that's all there is for him. He feels himself deflate like a balloon, whatever little energy that's been carrying him through the past few days fleeing altogether as he sinks down to the ground. The pissing match he's had with the boy seems inconsequential now. His throat is scratchy and his head's starting to hurt again; an all-encompassing dread like a physical lump in his airway that he can't swallow past. He's allowed himself too many moments of weakness lately, but somehow it doesn't seem to matter at all.

The evening breeze is picking up again. The once-great wizard buries his head in his arms, small and hopeless, a stolen wand left forgotten on the sun-warmed rock bed that's steadily being chilled by the unforgiving ocean wind.

/

Harry walks down the winding path from the Lighthouse down to the cliff, hand tight around the wand in his pocket, heart thumping. Two minutes ago, a frantic Kreacher came to him, sobbing, and it took Harry a good moment to make out that Riddle has taken off, and Kreacher is sorry but Kreacher didn't stop him because – because it's _him_ and _he had a wand_.

So now Harry searches for Riddle in trepidation, knowing full well this situation can turn ugly very quickly. He doesn't fancy fighting the dark lord, but well, even if the dark lord is armed and dangerous again, Harry the Living Horcrux is in the least danger compared to everyone else. Harry quite single-handedly started this mess, and he reasons he better take care of it. Whether he's preparing himself for a confrontation, a duel, he isn't sure. He just –

He takes in the sight of his archenemy curled in on himself in the semi-darkness, and Harry knows he's got nothing to worry about safety-wise – rather, a whole lot more trouble in coming up with what to say.

Carefully, Harry picks up the wand Kreacher must've been referring to – a nice piece of wood – and a small jolt runs through his right arm. His magic flares up in mild interest.

"You nicked that from Jansen?" Riddle startles – Harry's voice seems inordinately loud in the dim silence – but he doesn't meet his eyes. He looks almost disinterested.

Harry sighs, and tries again. "I gather it didn't work?" Wrong question – Riddle jerks and Harry winces. Talk about tact.

The ocean waves make the same music as always. Harry's longtime enemy fidgets, glaring at anything but him.

"I didn't do it to hurt you." Harry offers quietly. And that gets Riddle's attention. Gleaming red eyes bear into his soul as Harry crouches down so he's level with the other man.

"I didn't take your wand to hurt you, honest; not to gloat, not as a trophy - I don't _do_ trophies." Harry lets out a small chuckle. "Honestly, it called to me, to my magic – _your_ magic that you passed on to me that night, I –" Harry takes out the yew wand from his pocket, relishing that unmistakable jolt the instrument gives him. "It was the most fantastic feeling I've had in a while. It's like being eleven again and getting my wand for the first time – you remember how that felt, yes? It felt _right_ …"

Riddle still doesn't answer, and Harry takes a deep breath to prepare himself for what he's about to say.

"But I suppose it is not mine as much as it is … do you want it back?" Harry is fully aware how insane he must sound right now, offering a mass murderer his weapon back. But some part of him knows what the answer is going to be already, perhaps before even Riddle himself does.

Riddle scrutinizes him for a good minute, something akin to hope flaring in his eyes before dying the very next moment. He shakes his head very slowly once, as if foreign to the movement. Then he gets up with considerable effort, cutting a dark silhouette against the soft light from the house, shoulders slightly hunched and head bowed, a figure so unlike the haughty dark lord Harry used to know.

Riddle shakes his head again. "I have no use for it." With that, he starts the ascent to the Lighthouse, and Harry turns his eyes away to the sea. His former enemy sounded so broken that he almost calls him back.

Almost.

Harry sits down on the cliff and listens to the waves for a little while. For one reason or another, the Dark Lord has just let him keep his wand. That ought to count for something.

* * *

 **A/N: As always ... reviews? o.O**


	14. Chapter 14

**Happy Friday - and here's a chapter that only took a little over half a year!**

 **I haven't abandoned any of my HP stories, promise :p**

* * *

Riddle falls ill again the very next day. It starts out with a few sneezes, then dramatic sounding coughs and his normally pale face turning a little flushed; by the time the tenacious summer sun finally sets below the horizon, Riddle is feeling miserable enough to cast away his pride and admit to Harry he isn't feeling well. Downright awful, in fact. Harry, ever the bleeding heart, wastes no time in phoning the healer-on-call in St. John's, imploring him to make a visit even though it is after hours.

Nonetheless, his efforts pay off. The look on Riddle's face when the healer declares it's simply a muggle cold and offers him an assortment of orange and blue pills is nothing short of priceless.

In the end, the doctor suggests the best way to deal with a cold is to "let it run its course". Riddle looks like he desires murder - nothing out of the usual - and Harry follows Riddle into his room to hand him a headache potion, feeling like a parent caring for a bratty child.

"Gosh, have you never had a bloody cold before?"

But Riddle ignores him and continues to sulk, probably wallowing in his recent mortality complex, so Harry slowly looks around, taking in the room. He hasn't yet had the chance to inspect the ground floor bedroom in detail. The room is smaller than his bedroom upstairs, but cozy with a generous amount of light; giant sliding doors lead out onto the terrace overlooking a steep cliff. But the very first thing that captures Harry's attention is the impeccable neatness - not an item out of place. By the entrance, there is an open concept closet, with the new muggle clothing they got in town organized into perfect rows and stacks. The small desk between the bed and the sliding doors is spotless, above which hangs a small bookshelf, rows of books precisely arranged.

Harry can't help but laugh; turns out Malfoy's elves aren't the biggest neat freaks - it's Lord Voldemort himself! Well, seems like he and Aunt Petunia have something in common …

The only exception to the almost unnatural tidiness is a book, lying half open on the desk, apparently in the process of being read. He glances at the title:

 _Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea_ \- Harry recognizes the title from the throngs of collector hardcover books Dudley received as presents but never cracked open. How curious. Who knew the Dark Lord had a taste for muggle fiction? Harry bites down a chuckle, stealthily leaving the room as Riddle falls asleep.

* * *

At close to noon the next day, out of the goodness of his heart, Harry decides to check on his former enemy, bearing orange juice and oatmeal. Riddle is lounging on the bed, still looking miserable yet tremendously bored. His face is flushed still and his eyes are slightly bloodshot, so Harry surmises his fever hasn't broken. At least, he reaches for the food with rather atypical enthusiasm, obviously famished since the day before. Harry opens the sliding door and revels in the soft breeze as Riddle eats, with a possessiveness that reminds him distinctly of Oliver Twist. Riddle doesn't say "thank you", but Harry didn't expect him to at any rate.

"Better?" Harry queries as he banishes the empty dishes to the kitchen.

Riddle huffs noncommittally, almost pouting, not saying another word. Harry turns around to stare at the midday sea, a soft blue under the overcast sky. Looking at the sea is always something he can do when his only human housemate feels like playing the ignoring game.

Riddle breaks the silence all of a sudden.

"Harr … Potter." The former dark lord catches himself before he can commit such a transgression as using his sworn enemy's given name. Harry finds it funny. In public, they call each other "Harry" and "Tom", like old friends. In private, they use each other's last names as if they were curse words. Better yet, they've been trying their damned best not to talk since the Kreacher episode.

"Yes?" Harry manages to hide his amusement.

"Have you got the book on Napoleon Bonaparte?"

"Yes, and?"

Then Riddle says something unexpected. "Could you … read to me?" He doesn't say "please", but his tone alone is enough.

"And you can't read it yourself because ... ?"

"Headache." Riddle replies evenly. Harry supposes that's fair enough, slightly taken aback by this blatant display of weakness.

In the end, Harry fishes the hardcover muggle book out of his meager luggage and picks up where they left off all the way back at Hogwarts. Riddle peers out at the cloudy sky as he listens. This is nice - simple. Fifteen chapters in, Harry still butchers the French names, but the air between the two former enemies just seems a lot lighter even as Napoleon's empire slowly crumbles.

They read on as Paris fell and Napoleon's senior officers mutinied. They read on as the emperor attempted to take his own life while in exile on a tiny island named Elba. As they finish the section on Napoleon's second ascent to the French throne though, Riddle says abruptly.

"Let's stop here. I know well enough what happened next." The following chapter is titled "Waterloo". Harry imagines even he knows what happens next. He finds that he'd rather stop the story amid cries of "Vive L'empereur!" as well; he too has grown quite fond of the short little Corsican who had the gulls to take on the world.

* * *

A week later, the temperature shoots up to 25 degrees. Harry shuffles on the rough sandy beach on the south side of the Lighthouse, eyeing the water longingly. The clear, gentle waves glitter under the high noon sun, crashing merrily upon the beach, inviting. The rational part of him knows the water is still quite cold. The childish part of him can't help it. Behind him, looking just slightly out of place in muggle summer clothing, Riddle scowls. Harry is still amazed that he decided to come along. Perhaps the former dark lord really is bored - he seems to have exhausted the little stash of books in the downstairs bedroom.

Harry, on the other hand, has spent much of the past week flying and playing Quidditch with Desmond and his boisterous friends. Sometimes Erin would join their games, but she often has research work to do and, regardless, she prefers this odd muggle sport involving hockey sticks that seem much too short for the players. But when she did spectate, she had the audacity to drag Riddle with them to the field, once he had recovered from his cold somewhat.

Harry didn't end up infected after all, but jumping into the water right now seems like tempting fate. But since when did he let common sense stand in his way?

"You are not going into the water, are you?" Riddle asks roughly, reminiscent of Harry's question to him on their trans-Atlantic journey.

'Sure I am." Harry replies with bravado, testing the water temperature with his toes and as a result, suddenly very awake despite a late night on the town.

This part of the shoreline was given the name Good Will Bay by the Potter siblings when they were children. A small, shallow natural harbour protected from the great waves of the Atlantic by the cliff that supports the Lighthouse - where the freerun youngsters of Witless Bay might dock their kayaks and play pirate games with wooden swords. Desmond has shared tales of himself doing exactly that. Harry knows he isn't an excellent swimmer, but if he can handle the Black Lake, he can surely take a dip here. Stripping down to swim trunks, the boy saviour plunges into the water with an abandon he never quite had as a kid.

A giant splash, and a pleasant chilliness seeps into his every cell. Exhilarating. Letting out a shriek in delight, Harry makes a quick lap to the rock at the other end of the harbour and back. Straining to open his eyes underwater, he watches the sun dance in the most mesmerizing pattern on the floor of the sea. A few minutes later, he looks back upon the beach, and finds Riddle still standing there, unimpressed.

"It feels awesome! You should try it!" Harry doesn't quite know why, but he's feeling particularly cheery today. If Ron was here, he'd have jumped in five minutes ago. Riddle casually stares at him as if he is retarded.

"Potter! Have you completely lost it?"

"It's a very pleasant temperature." Harry grins. It really isn't, but that's part of the charm.

"No."

"Tom … come on!" Harry nearly whines - fine, he whines - daring to rile him up. Riddle's Christian name comes in much handier when one wishes to butcher it in a petulant tone. Riddle doesn't seem to mind, only appearing slightly disturbed by Harry's merriment.

A sudden thought crosses Harry's mind. "You _know_ how to swim … don't you?"

It's so very immature of him, Harry knows, but the former dark lord is immediately indignant - "Of course I do, Potter!" - so perhaps he isn't the childish one here.

Having gingerly tested the water, Riddle meticulously unbuttons his shirt and starts to wade into the waves, a highly suspicious look on his face this whole time. Harry remembers that common sense has never been the Dark Lord's forte either.

"See? Not that bad."

Instead of swimming, Riddle chooses to stand in chest-deep water, staring at something on the surrounding sea floor. How boring. Just as Harry seriously contemplates whether it is socially acceptable at all to splash his former arch nemesis when his guard is down, Riddle dives, emerging a few seconds later with a stunning red seashell. Harry is reminded of Riddle's long time obsession with shiny things - or just pretty things, apparently. His chestnut hair particularly wavy with dripping seawater, the Heir of Slytherin holds the little seashell up to the sun - and smiles.

* * *

Either William Potter was the biggest bookworm in the Potter line, or Desmond secretly has a bookish side, Harry decides, marvelling at the enormous library that takes up an entire wall in the living room. Books on magic - all kinds of magic - almost alive on the shelves, humming with power and knowledge of old. He finds himself having the urge to take one and read it - God forbid! What would Ron think he caught Harry read a book for fun? Oh Hermione would be so proud …

In all seriousness, Harry has been lacking something substantial to do. Maybe this is what summer holiday is supposed to feel like - lazy, carefree, with a modicum of restlessness - when no one is yapping at him to do chores without magic.

Harry does have some chores to do: taking over parts of the Potter estate; cooking. Kreacher absolutely cannot be trusted near a stove, so Harry does it. He realizes that he doesn't mind; that he's actually got a talent for it, however rubbish he was at Potions.

Returning to the book collection again, Harry eventually pulls out a thin tome titled _Magical Flow and Control - A Practical Approach_ and settles down to read. He's got to figure out what his magic has against him one of these days. Breaking bowls and cups has gotten tiresome for the master chef in him.

Two evenings later, he finally reaches the "practical approach" part. Giddy to take a stick to things after so long without doing actual magic, he pulls out the yew wand and gets ready to experiment on a small candle he lit on the kitchen island.

A shifting sound by the fireplace breaks his concentration. Oh Merlin, he's forgotten that Riddle's curled up in his favourite bean bag chair (it was a rather funny picture, the first few times), devouring some muggle book.

Harry eyes Riddle with some apprehension, not sure what to expect. Sure, them freezing their arses off together at Good Will Bay was very nice, but they've not yet managed to go one step forward without taking two steps back. Riddle has by no means come to terms with his loss of magic, and here Harry is practicing magic in front of him with his old wand, rubbing salt into the wound.

The former dark lord sports a somewhat hungry look, and Harry swallows. Yet no biting comment is coming, so he returns to his work.

Focus on the candle flame … imagine you can feel your magic and the fire through your magic … don't think of any specific spell; instead, try to control the flame directly … intention is key …

Deep breath. Focus. Feeling the magic burning in his right arm, itching to be used, Harry wills the fire to burn brighter -

The next thing he knows, the flame shoots up ten feet high, threatening to devour the caster as a whole. A few frantic Aguamenti averts a house fire, but what it leaves is not a pretty sight. The fire scorched the ceiling and nearly took out his eyebrows. Harry sighs dramatically; so much for magical control!

Steadying his breath, he chances a look at this archenemy, who has the decency not to look too amused.

"Salazar, Potter, you are hopeless." Riddle says simply before going back to his reading. Harry hates to admit it but he echoes the sentiment.

* * *

The sun shines generously today. With his eyes half closed, Riddle leans back and stretches out his limbs, imagining himself to be a leaf, willing the waves to keep him afloat. Relax, weightless, yes … It doesn't work. For the umpteenth time, he feels himself sinking. Potter has just kicked him out of the house; 'get some sun', he says – the nerves of that boy! Riddle soon has to start treading to keep his head above water. Grudgingly, Riddle admits that the temperature isn't unpleasant today, and it feels good to have the mid-July sun warm his much too pale skin. Potter doesn't need to know that, but he's always liked the sea. Enjoyed swimming even; the few times he got to do it as a boy, he made waves and let his mind travel, imagining he was a great white whale or a sea serpent, ruler of the seas. At any rate, isn't the human body supposed to be lighter than seawater? His muggle school teachers were full of nonsense, but somehow he doesn't think they lied on that point…

A light chuckle sounds somewhere above him. "You'd have to put on a lot more fat if you want to float that way." Erin Potter says with a mischievous grin. Riddle stills, and then quickly makes for the shore. If they are to have a battle of wits, he wants them to be on equal footing. Erin just smiles at him good-naturedly. Suddenly aware of how little clothing he's wearing – 1940s sense of decorum; can't help it – and how pathetic he must look with knobby knees and protruding ribs, Riddle feels an angry flush coming on. He glares at the girl nonetheless.

"And you've been having fun watching me flail around all this time?" He spats as he make a beeline for the towels.

"Nuh huh, I was on my way to bring these cookies to Harry. But you made quite a sight." She was smiling sweetly, so wonderfully oblivious to his fury. Then she turns tail towards the Lighthouse, and Riddle finds himself following.

"Oh, and Tom, I finished my research proposal. Would you like the honour to be the first to proofread it?"

"The one on Victorian social reform and the Second Industrial Revolution?" Riddle has no idea why he lets these freaking Potters get away with treating him like this.

"Yup."

"If only you let me borrow your books." Erin Potter has quite the impressive collection of muggle books. He's giving her his trademark half smile. No one could say no to him when he smiled like this.

"Deal." She probably would have agreed anyway, he laments.

As they start climbing the staircase, he brings up the more fundamental question. "Say, where do you get all your books anyway?"

* * *

 **Reviews? Just to let me know you guys are still out there?**


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

The owls arrive in formation, rather like a small RAF squadron carrying large brown packages as their payloads. For a moment, Harry is convinced that the British wizarding public has somehow tracked him down and are now showering the, no doubt, treacherous Boy-Who-Lived with howlers and dungbombs. His fears are assuaged a few minutes later, as the owls pass him by swiftly and attack the ground floor veranda instead. Harry chuckles as he hears a few thumps and Riddle's undignified yells. The owls seem to have unloaded their cargo none-too-gently.

After that, new owls arrive every few days, and a corner of the living room starts to get overrun by stacks of neatly arranged books. Muggle books, on muggle history, both popular and obscure. Some of them are on epic events that Harry was forced to familiarize himself with back in muggle school. Some of them, as he leafs through them very carefully so as not to disturb the order, seem awfully academic and definitely not Harry's definition of light reading. Riddle practically inhales them, sometimes making notes furiously as he reads. Harry is immediately reminded of Hermione. Perhaps if neither of them was who they are, the muggleborn witch and the former dark lord would have been very good friends. If Harry is the least bit alarmed by how many of these books are on muggle dictators throughout history and their campaigns, he doesn't say anything.

"Where are you getting all these books from? Mail order?"

Riddle actually snorts. "Are you the one that grew up during the Great Depression, Potter?" He gestures to the desktop computer that Erin insisted they set up in the corner. It's a cute little thing - egg shaped and in what Riddle dubs a "ghastly shade of green". Harry would've gone with the red one just to spite him. "I buy them from this 'website' called Amazon. Do keep up with the times, boy."

"And you're paying for them with …?"

"Your credit card, of course. Speaking of, you had better pay them back."

Harry scratches his head. Right. Now he's funding Lord Voldemort's probably passing interest in muggle history. He wonders if he can bill it to Lucius Malfoy.

With just a little encouragement from Erin and Desmond, Riddle has embraced muggle technology and even a modern muggle lifestyle with alarming fervour. Harry keeps pondering what he could be playing at - is he not the one that despises muggles the most? Yet if having shiny new gadgets and the Internet to play with can distract his nemesis from his lack of magic and wealth of murderous intent - so that red-tainted eyes no longer look at him with such an acute loss and want whenever he practices magic in the house - Harry would be the last to complain.

* * *

It's routine by now. RIddle hasn't succumbed to an episode in broad daylight since the disastrous Kreacher incident, but the nights still seem to promise endless horrors for the former dark lord. Sometimes Harry is woken up by physical sounds of distress; sometimes he jolts awake from a disturbance over their mind link. Regardless, he's made a habit of padding downstairs, shaking his archenemy awake, and going back up to sleep, all in five minutes' work and without exchanging a word. He hasn't offered to comfort him like that night on the Windbreaker - Merlin's beard - for the sake of their respective emotional health. Harry still feels his cheeks burn a little when he thinks of what he did that night - it was too daring, too intense, much, much too embarrassing. This new routine is better - he can probably do it while sleepwalking.

"I was dreaming of the war - the Blitz." RIddle says, and Harry freezes by the door.

"Huh?"

"You said that 'talking about it' will make me 'feel better', did you not?"

"I … uh. Yeah." Harry mumbles unintelligently, but for Godric's sake, he's half asleep right now - what right does Riddle have to break the routine?! - and so not ready for a serious conversation.

"Here I'm talking about it. And yes, the Dark Lord is haunted by a muggle war more than fifty years in the past. Do they call it irony?"

Harry sits down at the foot of the bed. A soft breeze enters the room through the sliding door, smelling like salt and rain. "What … what was it like then? The war?" When he relayed Dumbledore's early memories of Tom Riddle to his two best friends, Hermione immediately made the connection between the time period and World War Two. Harry, like any other child attending muggle school in the United Kingdom, spent his fair share of time learning about the Battle of Britain. Yet he has never really been able to equate the snake-faced dark wizard with some frightened kid trying to find a spot in a jampacked underground station, like what he's seen on so many black and white pictures.

"It was cold. And loud - the airplanes, the bombs going off all over the city, the anti-aircraft guns - so much noise all night long. We were often hungry. Then again, growing up during what they call the Great Depression now, it was common to go hungry once in a while. Did you know that we didn't have designated shelters? We could try to hide in of the tube stations, but it was so crowded and wet - so many muggles. I was no more willing to be there than to be blown into pieces." Riddle looks out into the dark expenses as he reminisces. He doesn't draw the curtains shut when he goes to sleep. "So I would stay in my room when the Germans came, holding my wand, ready to save myself should a bomb fall right on top of us. I could of course cast protection charms beforehand, but I had no desire to shield the entire blasted orphanage and the other children that were too slow or too scared to seek out a shelter somewhere. Why would I? They thought magic was against nature. Being saved by it would hardly change their minds. So I resolved to only cast at the last possible moment. Besides, I thought that if the orphanage burnt to the ground, I might finally be allowed to stay at Hogwarts over the holidays. Where else could I go?" He lets out a little laugh here, not so much bitter as mocking his own childhood silliness. "Funny thing is in my dreams, I'm always too late. Being crushed to death by burning debris is one of the less pleasant ways to go."

A silence. Harry doesn't quite know what to say. Riddle seems content enough for them to stew wordlessly now that he's unloaded the dream that's been bothering him.

"Uh … maybe take it easy on the World War II research?"

In the semi-darkness, he can make out Riddle's crooked smile. The Second World War is the subject of the week. The other day, Erin came over and transfigured the coffee table into a massive tactical map of Europe. They were hunched over the map and debating for hours.

"Perhaps."

"It's only 2 a.m. You should go back to sleep."

Riddle nods, laying back down. Harry stands up and yawns dramatically, "Allllll-right. Good night, Tom." In his absent-minded retreat upstairs, he doesn't see the narrowed eyes that follow him thoughtfully.

* * *

"You are not doing it right." Riddle drawls lazily. Harry throws his hands up in frustration.

"Well, I know that much!"

It's been several weeks already, and his control over magical flow is still abysmal. Aside from not burning down the house, there hasn't been much progress. In addition to the candle trick, he's worked through half a dozen exercises, including controlling water and some very fancy juggling. He's broken quite a few plates in the last endeavour.

"Why don't you enlighten me then? How do I do it right?" Harry snaps despite his best judgement.

Riddle, instead of being mad, closes his book slowly and moves to lean on the kitchen island. "First and foremost, it's the wand."

Harry sighs. "This wand's fine. It works much better than Draco's. Horcrux, remember?"

Riddle waves that off. "Yes, yes, the wand suits your magic. I'm merely referring to the way you are using it. This wand is extremely powerful, and very … particular. You must put in the exact amount of magic required while possessing the precise intent. You can't very well wave it around like a buffoon with a stick and hope something happens."

"I'm not -"

"Do you want to learn or not?" Harry promptly shuts up. "Good. Now, many of you young wizards nowadays have no inkling how to control magic. The wand is nothing more than an instrument you can use to channel the correct form of magic. Instead, you tend to throw all your energy into the stick and expect it to do the work for you. That simply would not work."

"You realize you're teaching me magic?" Harry blurts out, even though everything Riddle has said is perfectly reasonable.

"Yes?"

"The Dark Lord is teaching the Boy-Who-Lived how to be a better wizard." He deadpans.

Riddle replies nonchalantly. "You know what they say - those who can't do, teach…" Harry has zero clue what's put Riddle in such a good mood today, but he won't complain.

"All right, but that's easier said than done - the wand, I - I can't straight up do what you just said." Harry fumbles. "I can't always control the timing - not to mention I don't even know how to get the 'correct form' of magic! Defence and offence spells are easy; I put in as much power as possible. But when I do any of the things in this book, I just -"

"Don't use the wand then."

"Huh?"

Riddle retrieves something from the coffee table and drops it on the countertop. "Vanish this." It's one of the many seashells the former dark lord has collected during his swims. "Wandless and without a spell."

"Ugh …" Harry places the wand on the counter, feeling quite lost. "Without a - how?"

"What do you mean by 'how'? Spells are simply crutches, as are wands, although us European wizards have been so accustomed to them that we are hardly able to go without." Riddle explains evenly. "Do you not remember performing magic at the most arbitrary moments when you were young?"

"But that's accidental mag - oh."

"Exactly. Theoretically, anything you can do with a wand and a spell you can do without. The difficult part is learning how to control it. Precisely what you're attempting to do here, yes?"

"Makes sense. Okay. Here goes…"

Harry holds out his right hand over the seashell. His magic sparks. He frowns. The seashell is still there, bright red and smug.

"Really, Potter? And here you fashion yourself my equal? I could pull this trick when I was merely eight years old!"

"Oh of course you could - you are bloody brilliant!" Harry shoots back instantly, catching Riddle off guard. A small smile plays on the former dark lord's lips then.

"Did you just call me brilliant, Potter?"

Sure I did is the first response that comes to mind. Because you are - you don't need servants cowering at your feet to be powerful; you don't have to be terrible to be great; you don't even need magic to be brilliant ... How he wishes that Riddle knew that. But he doesn't tell him that, saving both of them a good deal of embarrassment. He gives a petulant "oh sod off" instead.

Riddle raises an elegant eyebrow and tsks at his language, and Harry goes back to his staring contest with the little red seashell.

Vanish… Vanish … Go away… God just disappear already you stupid seashell …

"I see that you need even more help, brat; so be it. Listen closely. Your magic is a part of you, and you alone control what it does. Look at this seashell, and imagine your magic wraps around it. You can feel it, yes?" Harry nods. He's been able to feel his magic more acutely than ever for the past few months. "Now close your eyes. Yes, close your eyes. Just do it." Harry complies dubiously. "You can still feel it." Incredible. Tiny tendrils of warmth tingle across his fingers, and he can sense, feel the seashell, as if he was seeing and touching it. "Very good. Now push your magic - just a little, a touch - we are playing with such a tiny object. Tell it to - command it to make the seashell … go away."

Harry opens his eyes, and the seashell is nowhere to be seen.

"Very good." Riddle declares triumphantly, inconceivably pleased by Harry's disappearing act with a tiny seashell. He looks so alive that Harry isn't sure if this is the former dark lord's definition of living vicariously - or if he simply enjoys teaching magic. Harry idly wonders whether, even after Dumbledore became Headmaster, the fledgling Dark Lord genuinely wanted to teach DADA. Before he arrives at a conclusion, Riddle straightens up and drops another seashell on the island. A greyish one this time. "Now cast the vanishing spell with the wand."

Harry picks up the wand and trains it on the seashell.

"Feel for your magic like you did before. Imagine it coming out of the tip of your wand instead of your hand. Can you feel it?"

"Yes."

"Instead of doing your normal, mindless casting, focus on obtaining the right amount of magic. You have to be absolutely certain that it will obey before letting it flow through the wand. Do you understand? Now do it."

Harry breathes, steadies his hand, feels, commands … "Evanesco." The seashell vanishes.

Effortless.

"Excellent. The exact amount of power, no more, no less. That, Harry, is what they mean by control of magical flow."

Harry nods fervently, feeling quite like Hermione in first year.

"Now let's see about those unfortunate plates …"

* * *

July 31st begins unceremoniously. Even though Aunt Petunia isn't here to drag him out of bed to make breakfast, he wakes up bright and early to cook eggs.

Harry hasn't been one to care much about his birthday. Back with the Dursleys, it was never something to look forward to. Although his friends would try to make up for it with belated presents every year, he was much more excited for Christmas or Easter.

He turns eighteen today- nothing special. In the muggle world, he becomes an adult, yet that means little to him. One year older and the Boy-Who-Lived is no closer to deciding who he really is.

He levitates the egg onto a plate and cracks another one into the pan. Here in St. John's, they get the Daily Prophet half a day late - the postal office seems to find the thought of delivering a morning paper in the evening blasphemous - and Wizarding Britain definitely has not forgotten about their Chosen One's birthday.

The Saviour's Birthday - Where Is Harry Potter? The headline exclaims. For pages on end, reporters plow on with mostly made-up snippets of his life, conspiracy theories, plus supposed sightings of the boy hero - as if he was some exotic beast!

All drivel. He banishes the paper to the coffee table, not willing to ruin his appetite.

Humming a tune from a muggle pop song, Harry flips the egg over. Riddle prefers it medium well; sunny side up is too messy, he says - go figure. Harry wonders what would happen if he locked Riddle in a room with a head doctor - any muggle psychiatrist would surely have a field day with this basket case.

Returning from the tangent on head shrinks, Harry marvels at the bizarreness of it all. That Voldemort has a personal preference for not-runny eggs - scratch that. That the Boy-Who-Lived knows how the Dark Lord likes his bloody eggs! How would the Prophet like that for a headline?

Right after breakfast, Harry gets a phone call from Australia. Ron is visiting with Hermione and they have stayed up late to wish him a happy birthday. They manage to have a civilized conversation on their recent exploits once Harry and Hermione convince Ron that there's no need for him to shout into the microphone for Harry to hear him.

They spend the requisite amount of time dissing the Daily Prophet.

"... although I am surprised that no one has found out where you are, mate - and who you're with." Harry can hear the grimace in Ron's voice."That would be one big fiasco."

"At least I haven't gone off to Eastern Europe to submerge myself in the Dark Arts."

"Enough people sure think you have. Did you know that Rita Skeeter is boasting she would write a book on Voldemort?"

"Merlin help us all …"

There is a lull in the conversation after that, and Hermione brings up the elephant in the room. "Speaking of, how is .. Riddle?"

"Perfectly delightful!" Harry gives a rather strangled laugh. "Charming, really." He supposes his friends don't really want to hear about how the former dark lord isn't sick anymore; how he still wakes up terrified and unhinged in the middle of the night but he's doing so much better already. How, the other day when Desmond convinced them to go rafting and Riddle was looking a little too pale at the crazy currents, Harry reassures him half-jokingly that he would "save" him with magic should they ram into a rock - how there was a modicum of trust in Riddle's eyes when he nodded his consent and Harry thought that was kind of precious. Their trip downstream that day was exhilarating.

But he can't tell them any of that; he isn't sure he's comfortable with how … attached he's become himself. So he settles for "He's been behaving - so far."

"Gee Harry, can you not talk about the Dark Lord as if he's some rescue animal you've taken in?"

"But I've already house trained him." He grins smugly. "And everyone here thinks he's really cute. Seriously Mione - you're one to talk about stray animals!"

A few snickers, then Hermione has to go and ask the other question he's been dreading.

"How goes your research, Harry?"

He tries his best not to sound sheepish. "I, uh, I haven't found much ... haven't found anything, really."

"Harry ..." Hermione admonishes, as exasperated as she was when they were in school and Harry wouldn't do his readings. "Didn't you say there are loads of books at the Potter estates? Dark Arts books, even? Wouldn't there at least be something?"

"Eh ... I haven't exactly spent much time on it." Harry admits lamely. "I've ... been doing other things?"

"Harry! This is important! I know we haven't had a breakthrough all this time, but now is not the time to give up!" Hermione's outrage is expected. Ron's tentative query is what strikes a little too close to home.

"Harry, I don't want to sound crass, but … do you not want to get rid of him as soon as possible? That sounds loony, I know, but from where we are standing -"

"Of course I do!" Harry replies vehemently, not exactly sure who he's trying to convince. "I - how can I not want - you have no idea! You two don't have to live with that - that thing in you, do you? Of course I want it gone - want him gone! I've waited for this many years!"

The truth is, their research has been the last thing on his mind these past couple of months. He'd rather spend all his time flying and swimming and wrestling with his insubordinate magic; rather put all his effort into forgetting that he is the Chosen One; that Riddle is the enemy he's meant to vanquish and not just some cranky, neat-freak housemate who also happens look more like a scholar than a killer whenever he talks about magic or even muggle history … Maybe he really doesn't want to vanquish him, not now, not any more … And finding a way to remove the horcrux would mean an instant death sentence for Riddle, and maybe that why the very idea of cracking open a book on soul magic feels all kinds of wrong to him -

Good God! What is wrong with him? He knows what Hermione would think should she find out the truth - it's his "saving people thing", she would say. Ron would simply call him out on being mental and possibly be rather cross with him. Oh forget about making Riddle see a shrink; he's the one that really needs to talk to a psychiatrist. What fancy word do they use to describe people who are delusional and masochistic enough to try to bond with a Nazi psycho who happens to have murdered their parents?

"Harry, I'm sure you know this. You are the last person I thought I'd say this to, but … this is Voldemort. He's dangerous. We have to put an end to this, the sooner the better. And just because he's lost his magic, it doesn't mean he is not -"

"Did you think I would forget who he is? How can I?" He counters. "I know him better than anyone." And that's precisely the problem, isn't it? At least his friends seem somewhat mollified. Before hanging up, Hermione elaborates on this one book she has to track down since it's referenced in another book and it sounds promising. Harry musters up as much enthusiasm as he can.

Later that day, Riddle looks at him a little strangely as they have lunch in silence. Harry wonders if he's heard any part of the phone conversation, but he hasn't the energy to worry about that now. In the afternoon, the rest of the Potter clan whisk him away to do birthday things, and Harry finds his mind blissfully kept away from his more somber musings. In the evening, Desmond throws a nice party at the other Potter manor that's more for himself and his friends, but Harry is grateful for it nonetheless. It's a nice, casual event, just a bunch of youngsters; drinking games, t-shirts and jeans, dance music loud enough to drown out the big freaking questions that are threatening to tear apart his life. As the night wears on and they all get a little tipsy, the pretty young pureblood that Harry's been hitting off with all month, Sasha Corman, invites him upstairs and gives him the honour to explore some uncharted territory - and Harry forgets about dark lords and destinies altogether.

Harry James Potter has made it past his eighteenth year. Not bad. Plus no one is actively trying to kill him, as far as he knows. Not bad at all.

* * *

 **Ohhh this was long, wasn't it? This is kind of the more internal conflict chapter that concludes the exposition portion of _Elba_.**

 **Reviews, please? :)**


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Look at that! I'm still updating this story!**

* * *

Chapter Sixteen

The Sunday editorial in the _St. John's Canon_ is dominated by an article written by one T. M. Riddle, and Harry nearly chokes on his 2% milk. He has good reasons to - it's not every day that you see the Dark Lord himself publish an opinion piece titled "On the Integration of Muggle Technology in Magical St. John's".

Hungrily, Harry reads it from top to bottom, then goes back to the top to read it again. It is not an academic essay - far from it - but the article is informative and its analysis sound. Riddle simply comments on his personal observation of Magical St. John's extensive use of muggle technology. The tone is personal enough to grab one's interest but in the end the opinion is neutral, if slightly appreciative. Harry can't help but feel that someone is testing the water.

Riddle pads into the kitchen a few minutes later, helping himself to eggs and toast without a word.

"Integration of muggle technology?"

"It's an intriguing subject." Riddle replies smoothly. "You have to admit we didn't have the likes of it in Britain."

"And what happened to us laying low? Not attracting attention?"

"It's one article in the local paper, Potter. I am easily bored - you must indulge me."

Harry sighs - he hopes it sounds as long suffering as he feels - and goes back to the paper. A good minute later, he realizes Riddle is staring at him.

"Do you like it?"

"What?"

"My article - do you like it?" Riddle keeps staring, blue eyes earnest and inquiring. Harry surmises he won't look away until he answers.

"Yeah."

"I'm glad." Riddle nods, waiting for Harry to continue. As if Harry is a celebrated editor and what he thinks of his first published piece is very important.

"You're … very good at writing. And, uh, explaining things." Harry says, feeling a little dumb. "And the magic - the communication magic you mentioned - it's quite incredible. I don't think we've ever been taught that in school. The most I've used something like it was the coins Hermione made for Dumbledore's Army - they would start to burn if a meeting was called."

"It _is_ rather nifty."

Harry suddenly has a funny feeling in his stomach. "You - oh! You used that when you made the dark mark, didn't you? To brand your followers?"

Riddle smiles with too much teeth. "As I said: nifty. I can teach it to you if you'd like, and you can perhaps start experimenting on Desmond …"

"I'll pass. I'm not _branding_ my friends!" Riddle still looks much too smug.

"Eat your toast, Tom …"

The roaring of an engine alerts Harry of their jeep-driving visitor, and soon enough Desmond comes in through the front door, brandishing a cream coloured envelope with a legit wax seal on it.

"Wonderful piece in the paper, Tom. Inspirational."

Harry raises his eyebrows at his cousin. "You _read_ the paper?" He earns himself a swat on the head with the envelope.

"Erin made me. You should see how excited she is - she'd probably hex me if I didn't read it."

"She told you to publish it, didn't she?" Harry turns to Riddle and demands. The former dark lord shrugs.

"She knows the editor." Harry groans.

"Speaking of things our dear Erin makes me do." Desmond slaps the mysterious envelope onto the counter. "I am really here to personally deliver this invitation to the annual Labour Day Ball."

"A muggle public holiday?"

Riddle very much shares the boy's incredulity, but he lets Potter ask it.

"Yes." Desmond shrugs. "It's a convenient date for _the_ end-of-summer event."

"And all of Canada's 'High Society' will be there?" Potter is turning a little green.

"Pretty much, yeah." Desmond answers, his enthusiasm not slightly dimmed by their skepticism. "And some American and European families too, before they return home from their vacation here. It's tradition. Several families in town take turns hosting it; it's our turn this year."

The brat pouts. "Do I _have_ to go?"

"It's tradition." Desmond reiterates, as if that explains everything. "Besides, it's _my_ party, Harry - I promise the grandest decor and excellent food."

In this moment, the blond-haired Potter looks a great deal like a young Abraxas Malfoy, boasting about the Malfoy Yule Ball, and Riddle smiles despite himself.

"I'm sure it wouldn't be terrible, Harry." He says, slightly over-the-top cheerful. A pureblood ball … it's almost familiar. Sinfully lavish, full of conceited, narcissistic rich folk that can't keep their heads after a few champagnes. Ready to talk about themselves, ready to brag, and, if you say the right words, ready to listen. He could use some of that.

"It's settled then! Harry, you better start looking at getting some formal clothes. The tailor we go to is of course quite awesome, but if you'd rather venture into the muggle part of town, there's also this little shop where Freshwater meets Pennywell …" And Desmond goes on and on. The boy sends him a look that says that he's a bloody traitor. Riddle grins.

The evening before Labour Day, Potter seems even more reluctant to attend the high society event.

"You're taking Erin to the ball?" Riddle decides to ask before Potter stares a hole out of the dress shoes that he's half-heartedly polishing.

"Yup. She doesn't fancy going with her brother, and Desmond apparently makes a game out of terrorizing any potential date that might take Erin to any of the social events - been going on since they were allowed to stay up late and attend those things."

"And what is happening with that Corman girl?"

Since his birthday party, Potter has been out with that brunette girl maybe half a dozen times. Yet the boy insists, off-handedly, that they've mostly been "hanging out" as friends, and whatever thing they've got going on in private is at most "hook-ups". His heart belongs to that Weasley girl, Potter once said rather pointedly. Riddle just shrugged, somewhat nonplussed - he's hardly ever met her.

"And what's it to you, Riddle?" Lashing out because of embarrassment. How very predictable.

"Erin is a lady."

"Yeah right." Potter comes close to rolling his eyes. "Erin, as you know, is a 20-year-old college coed that goes partying every week. I doubt that she needs you to defend her honour, Tom."

What _is_ it to him? Like he said, Erin is a lady. She deserves a date that is gentlemanly and not a rich, bratty playboy, if that is what the Gryffindor Golden Boy is turning out to be.

Yes, he tells himself, it is definitely that, no more and no less. It is decidedly not because if Potter spends more time chasing after Corman and other girls on the town, he spends less time at the Lighthouse - and the place seems too empty and the way that bloody house elf look at him is still too damn creepy. Their midnight discussions on his nightmares has become somewhat of a habit too. When Potter is away on a "sleepover", however, there is only the darkness and the sound of the waves …

Suddenly not liking where this line of conversation is going, Riddle changes the topic.

"Do you even know how to dance, Potter?"

The boy fidgets. "I - I can handle myself fine, thank you very much."

"And you understand that as one of the Potter heirs, Erin, and therefore her date, opens the ball?"

Potter swallows comically. "Don't remind me."

"I bet you've never learned properly. Today's Hogwarts education has an appalling lack in etiquette, if that Malfoy brat's words are anything to go by."

"Oh and I'm sure you were taught _properly_ at that orphanage of yours?" A sharp fury flares up, but he lets it slide. The brat's baiting him.

"Unfortunately, no. But I had the honour to learn from Abraxas Malfoy the art of dancing and wooing one's date."

"Sodding Malfoys." Potter mutters, almost pouting. Riddle makes half a dozen clicks on the computer, and a soft jazz standard fills the air. The boy perk up questioningly.

"Desmond mentioned that he hired a jazz band for the night, didn't he?"

"Yes?" Potter sounds rightfully suspicious. Riddle steps into the middle of the living room and holds out a hand.

"May I?"

Previously suspended shoes and brush drop onto the table with three neat clunks.

" _You're not serious._ " The boy is already blushing furiously, absolutely mortified. It must be uncomfortable to stare like that.

"Never too late, brat." He waits patiently. "I'll let you lead."

Potter takes a long moment to engage himself in a no-doubt-fierce mental battle before stepping forward and taking his hand. Their cursed mind link comes alive, and he starts issuing orders in time with the music.

Potter has nothing to worry about, really. The boy has a natural athleticism and only needs a few tips here and there to master any physical activity - not that Riddle would tell him that. By the end of the third song, Potter is leading quite smoothly despite how cramped their living room is.

"Now how about that?"

Potter steps back, still blushing, although his smile is big enough to betray the fact he's having fun. "Well, I will give it to you, Tom. You're teaching me way better than Professor McGonagall taught Ron back in fourth year."

Now that is one memory Riddle wouldn't mind seeing, just for laughs.

* * *

Harry stares in the mirror one more time, making sure his hair has finally given up the fight and decided to stay put. He feels a little ridiculous, having locked himself in his bedroom fussing over his looks for the past Merlin-knows-how-long. This is getting dangerously similar to the Yule Ball in fourth year, and look how that turned out. But this time, no longer a fourteen-year-old nervous wreck, he has the confidence to look squarely at his own reflection and think: not bad. He's now come to terms with the fact that he'll never catch up with Ron's height, but at least he's grown into his father's athletic build., filling out nicely once his life on the run was over, sporting a tan from all the swimming and flying. Humming a random tune, Harry pads downstairs, spots Riddle coming out of his own room, and finds himself staring.

It's … normal, Harry rationalizes; he hasn't seen Riddle all decked out before, formal muggle clothes or otherwise. Odd as it sounds, in the past weeks, he's gotten used to seeing his arch nemesis in shorts and the Darth Vader shirts Harry got him for fun. (Riddle doesn't get the reference, but Desmond and Harry are dead set on remedying that.) This … this is something else. There Riddle stands, giving Harry a rare smile; not a hair out of place, charm turned on high, his sheer presence more than making up for his slim stature. He looks like a statesman, a monarch, someone you want to get close to so you can bask in their presence.

Harry swallows the "Wow" because that sounds like some dumb high schooler - Ron, for instance - would say to their prom date. He goes for the tried and true "oh look, you clean up well" instead.

Desmond and Erin choose this convenient moment to barge into the living room, brandishing an Instax Mini with far too much enthusiasm.

"Harry, check this out! Erin got me this muggle camera last week, and to be honest I haven't really used muggle cameras before, and it's going to print the photo right after we take one - isn't that neat?" Desmond finally ceases rambling long enough to push Erin towards the fireplace wall. "Here, Harry, go stand there and take a picture with my lovely sister …" Erin glares and hijacks the camera with lethal efficiency.

"No, no, wait. Let me take one for just our English boys first."

Neither of them moves at first.

"Fireplace, picture, now." Erin frowns theatrically. "Gosh, you guys aren't shy, are you?"

"Come on, Harry!" Riddle laughs, slinging an arm over Harry's shoulders and steering him over to the wall, playing the part of the carefree young man perfectly.

Erin squints into the viewfinder, muttering about retro pieces of crap that only look cool but are so hard to use. Eventually, there is a sharp click, and a small piece of photo paper start to worm its way out of the belly of the camera. Desmond snatches it away almost before it was fully out, waving it vigorously in the air.

"Apparently I have to do this." He explains. A good minute later, colour starts to appear on the paper. Harry is quite intrigued too, if he's being honest with himself. He never had a camera like this as a kid.

"It doesn't move." Desmond narrows his eyes, almost pouting. Harry laughs.

"It's a muggle picture, Des. Of course it doesn't move." Desmond hands him the photo hesitantly, then offers.

"I can charm it to move – it shouldn't be too hard, I think?"

Harry looks at the small picture. A black-haired, green-eyed young man smiles warmly back, and for once it's a smile of his own that he doesn't hate. His blue-eyed companion looks so relaxed. So impossibly young. Merlin he looks so _happy_ , acting or not, and Harry can't ask for a more beautiful moment, captured in still. "No need, Des. It's quite perfect the way it is."

* * *

At eleven o'clock, the party is in full swing. The opening number was a grand but measured piece, and, thank Merlin, _not_ a disaster. Nonetheless, he excused himself from the dance floor at the earliest appropriate moment, and has been spending most his time since chatting at the bar. At the moment, all his new and old friends have deserted him - most of them dancing, some smoking pipes on the veranda, Desmond trying to tell jokes to his almost crush, Jenna Hawthorne.

"Whatcha looking at, Harry?" Erin slides into the seat next to him, snatching a floating champagne flute out of the air.

With the drink he has in hand, Harry motions to a certain dark haired wizard. Riddle has been entertaining an overwhelming stream of dance or conversation partners ever since the start of the ball. The former dark lord is in his element: sweeping girls and women alike off their feet with his moves and his charm, greeting the gentlemen with poise, always finding the right thing to say to get a hearty laugh. He's just finished dancing with Berenice Underhill, and is now deep in conversation with her and her gaggle of girl friends - telling some very intriguing and amusing stories, Harry hopes, from the way they are hanging on to his every word and bursting into theatrical giggles every so often.

"Man, there's a charmer. I wish I knew how he just turns his grumpy old man mode on and off."

Harry agrees, chuckling. "I must say I feel bad for the female population tonight."

"Does he not date?"

"Not in a long time, I'd imagine." Now that he comes to think of it, Harry isn't sure if Riddle ever dated, although it would have been a remarkable feat if he didn't even in school. And he much prefers to think that nothing happened between Bellatrix Lestrange and Snake Face. Gross.

"Does he even like girls?" Harry barely manages not to do a spit-take. _Ewww._ There's definitely a mischievous edge to Erin's tone.

"I … dunno. It's not really something we talk about.' He amends hastily. And Harry hopes they keep it that way, despite Riddle's sudden interest in the nature of his relationships with the girls in his life.

At the far end of the bar, a handsome but grumpy-looking man and his friends also seem to be tracking Riddle's every move. Slapping an empty glass on the counter, the man stands and makes his way to Riddle and the girls.

"Oh no." Erin says suddenly. "That's Peter Gillis, kind of a resident asshole around here. He asked Berenice to be his date, and she said no."

"He's not gonna give Riddle any trouble, is he?" Harry can only hope.

"He's been drinking." Erin has her delicate eyebrows knitted. "Come on, let's go rescue Tommy. Better safe than sorry."

By the time they reach the edge of the dancefloor, Gillis seems to be at the end of a rant.

"... no better than those muggle-loving hippies?"

Harry tenses, fighting to urge to take Riddle by the ear and say "I told you so". He hopes Riddle can manage to keep his temper here. That stupid article is more trouble than it's worth, but Riddle just smiles, cheerfully condescending.

"As far as I'm concerned, Peter, it is our duty as civil society to consider the facts fairly. Take the design of the public transit system, for example …"

And there he goes. Harry hides a smile the whole time Riddle destroys Gillis' arguments, one by one, feeling distinctly like the cautiously proud owner of a dashing and megalomaniac bulldog.

Gillis' face starts to turn even redder, and Harry is afraid he might cause a scene just before Erin cuts in.

"Oh my god I love this song." She gestures to the band, who are playing the opening notes to "Sweet Caroline". "Peter, care to dance?"

Gillis still looks put out, but he doesn't refuse either. Erin lets him lead her to the centre of the ballroom, making a face at Harry on the way. Feeling somehow obliged, Harry offers his hand to Berenice as Riddle smirks. That bastard sure is enjoying himself.

Right after the clock strikes midnight, the band silences, and the guests quiet down as the clinking of a spoon against glass permeates the hall. A red-faced, pot-bellied man looking to be in his sixties saunters on to the stage.

"That's the Mayor, Argus Burns.." Desmond explains. "I forgot to introduce you before." The three Potters and their popular guest made their way back to each other shortly before midnight. Desmond's posture is loose, but he insists he isn't drunk, at most tipsy. Erin baits him constantly. Riddle still seems like he's glowing.

"Uh hum, uh hum." Burns clears his throat with a self-important air, and Harry dislikes him immediately; perhaps unfairly - it's not Burn's fault that he reminds Harry of his least favourite authority figure. "As most of you already know, my fourth term as your mayor ends at the end of this year, and I want to take this moment to thank you all for your support!"

Some cheer. Desmond makes a face.

"But as much as I'm sad to leave, I now announce I won't be seeking another term."

That seems to be unexpected. The crowd murmurs quite loudly.

"Good riddance." Desmond says.

Erin quickly supplies. "Des is not a fan of Argus."

"I can see that." Harry smiles dryly. "Why not?"

"He's a weak-willed centrist that never gets anything done. For the last twenty years."

Harry bites his lip. The politicians he's seen have either been weak-willed centrists who get nothing done or genocidal fascists - it's not hard to see which one's worse.

"However! However!" Burns has to half yell over the crowd now, casting a _sonorous_ only now. "I know he hasn't announced yet, but we're all friends here, so I'd like to endorse a most deserving candidate - my nephew, Walter Eastchurch!"

The guests break out into full-on rowdiness again, mainly because of the alcohol that's been flowing freely, Harry supposes. Desmond looks like he ate something sour again.

"Let me guess - Des doesn't like this Walter fellow either?"

Erin grins. "Walter was a senior at Trois-Rivières when Desmond first went, and supposedly he liked to pick on first years."

Desmond suddenly turns to Riddle, putting an arm over the former dark lord.

"Tom! You know what? You should run …"

"I should what, Des?" Riddle raises his voice over all the half inebriated chatter.

"You should run for mayor!"

They all laugh.

"Oh brother, you're drunk." Erin chides. "Tom's only been here for - how long? Three months now?"

"Yes! But this man's a genius - did you _see_ him debate Peter just now? And imagine our Mr. Riddle destroying that Walter prick. You know you wanna see that!"

"That I do, Des. That I do." Erin humours her brother for a second.

"I am serious!" Desmond glares at each of them in turn. "We have money, we have contacts, and our man here has a brain, darn good looks, and by God, his way with words. Oh don't I have a plan … What do you say, Tom? _Riddle 1998_?"

The former dark lord has a small smile playing on his lips. "I'm all ears, Desmond." And Harry feels like they're all sitting at the top of a thrill ride, about to plunge.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

September flies by as quickly as warm weather leaves their little sanctuary by the northern Atlantic. The living room at the lighthouse is turned into a war room. Scrap paper, posters, new clippings float everywhere. Why they don't make use of any of the massive studies at the Potter estate is anybody's guess. Harry supposes he understands. He'd trade solemn arches and frowning portraits for something snug and cozy any day. Almost every evening, they all pack themselves in the Lighthouse ground floor to prepare for the upcoming candidacy announcement.

Harry is not much one for politics - never has been - but he enjoys their evenings in the war room nonetheless. He usually takes up one of the beanbags by the hearth, attempting to read, although he spends less time with his eyes on the words than on Riddle. It's fascinating, really. The former dark lord is mesmerizing when he works. The mission tonight is to come up with a campaign slogan, and progress is slow. Discarded suggestions are traced out in the air in shining letters, angry strikethroughs across all of them, courtesy of Desmond who's twirling his wand and declaring this a waste of time. Riddle, on the other hand, is in his element, tracing the perimeter of the living room with such focused energy that reminds Harry of a panther.

"Liberty, equality, fraternity?" Erin suggests teasingly, probably making a reference to muggle history. Riddle stands still and glares at her.

"We could use some of that." Erin defends, smirking. Riddle resumes pacing.

"... Unity … Unity … Impartial - yes, impartiality …"

"Impartiality - we haven't seen that around here in a while, have we?" Desmond, always the cynic.

"And modernity." Riddle stops, a look of triumph on his handsome face. It's like he's facing a crowd of supporters already. "That's just it."

They announce the Riddle candidacy on the day Harry starts Sentinel training. Summer holiday can't last forever, and when Desmond suggests the training program, Harry agrees readily. It's not like he's signing a contract. All he wants to do is learn more magic. That morning, Riddle delivers a big speech in front of the Town Hall, making traffic stand still for a good fifteen minutes. Over the next two weeks, the town talks about nothing else than the British emigrant who wants to run the place. Harry gets hounded by reporters once again, but they mostly leave him alone after he refuses to comment. Any campaign issues, he reiterates, should be brought up to either the candidate or Desmond Potter, the campaign manager. Still a few stragglers half-heartedly crowds him after he gets out of training every afternoon, and Harry feel slightly resentful towards Riddle for putting him in the media spotlight again, all the way across the Atlantic.

Harry calls the rest of the Golden Trio one night to catch up. He hasn't been talking to them enough, but things happen. The first ten good minutes are spent listening to Ron's complaining, so nothing's out of the usual.

"... and then we need to write this 100-inch essay on 19th century British laws on, on restricted spells, so that's more books to read - A hundred inches! Like _why_ would I ever need to know -?! And we haven't even learned a new hex yet!"

"Oh stop whining, Ron. You know understanding historical legislation and their impact on society is tantamount in present day law enforcement. And you really can't say current legislation has changed that much, now that everything's back to its pre-war state, so of course it's highly relevant …"

Harry smiles fondly. Leave it to Hermione to justify the mandatory reading of any book …

"Don't worry, Ron. Sentinel training's the same way. They've been making us read books for the past three weeks too. And our midterm essay is ten U.S. pages, which is a hundred and ten inches - I looked it up."

"That makes me feel rather better." Ron concedes. Hermione swats his head.

"Well, I think it's great you're going into further education too, Harry." Further education is for sure what Hermione will be doing for the next five years or so. Apparently, she has decided to try on being a healer for size, and has secured an apprenticeship on St. Mungo's. From what Ron describes, her entire study is cluttered by medical books. Hundreds and hundreds of them.

Ron sighs dramatically. "No, no, we would not want the Potter heir to become a rich aristocrat brat that sits on his bum and does nothing all day … Oh, did you know Malfoy was in Auror training?"

"For real? I wonder how he got in!"

"It's a right riot." Ron is back to complaining again. "And he was paired with me the other day in practical cause no one else wants to partner with him. It's so unfair."

"Kingsley believes in second chances." Hermione reminds them. And oh boy, Harry is not one to talk when it comes to giving gratuitous second chances, is he.

"Has the ferret been causing trouble?"

" _Not yet._ " Ron bites out. "I wonder if I can possibly help him along …?"

"Ron!"

"How's Kingsley doing?" Harry expertly rescues Ron from Hermione's ire. "With the November election and everything?"

"Oh that." Hermione sounds disappointed. "There's been tension among the higher-ups in the Ministry - some sort of special inquiry."

"Is Kingsley all right?" Harry asks, worried.

"Suppose so. But the old families and the hardliners are giving him a tough time again, now that the war's way behind us. They are going to delay the election. Haven't you heard?"

"Oh. Nah we get the British papers at least half a day late. And you know me - not much into politics." Except when my cousin goads a former dark lord into running for mayor and commandeers my living room for campaign purposes, he muses. Not like he's gonna bring that up. What Ron and Hermione don't know can't hurt them.

"Me neither, I think." Hermione says, a bit melancholy. "I guess I've realized I wouldn't really want to spend my life on politics. Such a waste of time."

"So, healer?"

"There's nothing simpler than helping people, Harry." And how he wishes that's always true.

"Well, have you learned new spells at Sentinel training, Harry?" Ron interjects. "George keeps saying Canadian Aurors dress up in red and wear cowboy hats."

"I haven't seen them do that yet. I don't really see myself in cowboy hats." Harry laughs. "And no, I can't say we've learned any new spells. We just had our first practical today, and guess what spell we worked on?"

"What?"

" _Expelliarmus_."

That gets a good laugh out of Ron. "Well, at least you're very, _very_ good at that super important spell! Dark Lord killer, that one!"

Harry's been looking forward to their first practical for weeks. And he has to commend their instructor, McNeil, for starting them off on the disarming spell. It _is_ a super important spell, thanks Ron. But of course he'd get there only to discover Peter Gillis' younger brother, William, is in the same class. And of course they'd get paired together, cause why not. It's just cherry on top that they are picked to go first, in front of the whole class.

"A truly exceptional disarming spell can break rudimentary shields, and that's extremely useful in combat situations." McNeil emphasizes. Ugh, not like they haven't sat through a thirty minute lecture on this topic already. Desmond has warned Harry about McNeil's tendency to chew his recruits' ears off. "And remember, Sentinels never injure or kill when they have the option to disarm!"

Harry faces William Gillis on the dueling platform. The training mat underneath feels oddly squishy. The younger brother looks less pompous than Peter, a lot more meek, but Harry can't help the feeling that William is brainier and therefore the more dangerous of the two. They both have their wands at ready, and Harry's magic sings at the prospect of a good duel, can't wait to be unleashed.

"Gentlemen, if you would go ahead whenever you're ready." Then McNeil warns, "Disarming spell and basic shielding only! This is not a duel!"

Like hell this isn't, Harry thinks to himself. The hungry look on William's face should tell anyone that much. Taking in a deep breath, Harry focuses his energy, and casts the spell that's saved him and his friends dutifully over the years. William, quite the competent wizard, throws up a shield and blocks it with little effort.

"What, that's all you've got, Potter?" The slightly nervous frown on William's face melts away to a smirk. All of a sudden Harry's back in second year, facing a yee-high Draco Malfoy, and isn't that a pleasant experience. "You better hold tight to your little stick."

And good thing Harry does. William's attack comes swift and silent, and he does a little trick with his wrist so that his spell twirls in mid-air before Harry's shield barely catches it on the edge. Harry feels the yew wand start to slip out of his hand - maybe no one would notice? - and has to jump a little to grasp it firmly again.

Oh but everyone's noticed. A few of his classmates snigger a little, and Harry feels his cheeks grow hot. Right, it's not like he's used to feeling like the greatest wizard alive, far from it - he's always known his enormous fame isn't backed up by skill, but still … If anything, he expects Riddle's kitchen tutoring sessions would've prepared him better for this not-a-duel. He can't help feeling embarrassed.

"Very good, Mr. Gillis!" McNeil remarks, probably as cheerily as he can muster. "You've almost got it. And don't feel bad, Mr. Potter; I'm sure you'll do better next time if you just …"

"Let him try again, would you, Mr. McNeil?" William suggest innocently. "After all, Harry's quite the war hero over in England, isn't he? What do they call him - 'the boy who lived'? He must have a trick or two up his sleeves!"

 _Oh yes, I do_ , Harry thinks bitterly. _Bully for me, that trick is usually the disarming spell._

"I don't see why not." McNeil agrees. "Mr. Potter, on your own time."

Harry feels the weight of everyone's stare on him once again. _The exact amount of magic … command the wand!_ He urges himself. But William's stupid, smug face doesn't help. _Focus on the magic, the magic …_

Harry closes his eyes.

His magic slithers out into the room like tentacles, giving everything a new light. It cackles, burns, waiting. He can be way more powerful than this Gillis' brat, he knows, but he's got to show them. Got to have his magic show them… He raises his wand, soaking up just enough energy, no more, no less.

" _Expelliarmus!_ "

" _Protego!_ "

He doesn't need to voice the spell, but no matter. A brilliant ball of light shoots out of the yew wand. William senses something's up too, ducking even as his shield materializes, but that doesn't help him. Harry's spell hits true, cutting clean through the shield. William is blasted backwards like a rag doll, landing on the mat with a whoosh. His wand sails through the air in a graceful arch, bouncing on the hardwood floor a few times before rolling under a desk. The look on everyone's face just then is absolutely priceless.

"So the moral of the story is, I _am_ very good at disarming spells." Harry concludes smugly. "Who'd have thought?"

The three-man campaign squad have been relegated to the veranda to give Harry some privacy, and because altogether it isn't that cold tonight. But now it's pitch dark out and Desmond and Erin have packed up to go home. Riddle sees them out, good-natured host he's appearing to be, and stands looking at Harry from the doorway.

"I gotta go. Early morning tomorrow." Harry excuses himself hurriedly. It's partially true - for a bunch of lazy Canadians, the Sentinel trainees are made to get up annoyingly early. Harry wonders what kind of bloody murder Ron would scream if he knew the former dark lord is now listening to their every word. If anything, Harry needs to end this conversation before Hermione can bring up his "research" into killing his permanent house guest in front of him.

"You stay out of trouble, Harry!" Hermione slips in even as Harry reaches to hang up.

"Yes, mum." Harry mutters. Fat chance of that.

The thing is, Harry's been trying his very best to stay out of trouble. He truly has. But it seems that, as always, trouble comes to find him. All he's been doing is having a nice night out on the town with his somewhat reformed archenemy - how Harry has roped Riddle into watching that stupid slasher Halloween film, he cannot say himself - and is there anything wrong with that? No! Yet the moment they turn off of George Street into a side alley, not even a hundred yards from their dinner spot, looking for a secluded spot to apparate home, they realize they've made a grave mistake. There, clustered in the dimness, puffing cigarette smoke and smelling faintly like alcohol, are none other than the Gillis brothers and their cronies.

"Ha look who's here!" Peter jumps off the milk crates he's been lounging on and saunters towards them, aristocratic features twisted into an ugly jeer. "Well, boys, our evening just got this much more interesting!"

"Look, Peter, we don't want any trouble, okay?" Harry tries to reason first. "Just trying to find a quiet spot to get home. So if you would just let us through ..." But Peter and one of his friends are getting too close, almost flanking them, and that makes the war veteran in Harry incredibly tense. He'd be one man against five, and Riddle can't even protect himself. "William, talk some sense into your brother …"

"Or what? You gonna _disarm_ me real good?" William puts on a leer identical to his brother's. Well, so much for hoping at least one of the Gillis clan would be sensible.

"Oh yeah, Potter needs to be taken down a peg." Peter has the playground bully chuckle down pat. "But my main issue here is with Riddle. What kind of name is 'Riddle' anyway? Who's he to waltz in here and try to run our town, hmm?" Harry, quite instinctively - _shut up, Ron_ \- moves to put himself between Riddle and Peter, which seems to rile Peter up even more.

"... Making those grand speeches and writing these essays, as if he's not some filthy mudblood - "

The next second blurs past in deja vu. Harry has his wand out before Gillis could finish the sentence, and beside him, Riddle grows completely still.

"You try saying that again." Harry says very quietly, a fire burning in the pit of his stomach. All of a sudden, he feels thirteen again, and some pompous pureblood brat just called his brilliant friend a mudblood. That won't do. That won't do at all.

Gillis throws up his hands mockingly and laughs. "Aw how cute - Potter here is defending his mudblood boyfriend …"

"Shut up, Gillis, or I swear to -"

"What will you do, Potter?' Gillis jeers. "A Sentinel cadet gonna curse me in the muggle part of town?"

That much is true. They shouldn't be fighting here - at least, he can't _start_ a fight here, not when he can still hear fiddle music up in those pubs. Like how he couldn't hex Dudley and his gang in those long, hot summers in Little Whinging, how he couldn't blow his uncle up for talking shit about his parents, how he couldn't curse Malfoy seven ways to hell outside the Potions classroom. He's so sick of - he didn't move all the way across the Atlantic for more of this nonsense. Gillis is right - he can't hex a civilian, not to mention on George Street - so he does the next best thing.

Pocketing his wand, Harry lunges forward and swings, his fist connecting with Gillis' nose with a satisfying crack. The pureblood scum bends down in a muffled howl of pain. Two of Gillis' gang have their wands out, and the rest start to pounce on Harry. Before they can get a hold of him, Harry ducks with a Seeker's agility and grabs Riddle by the elbow. The two former enemies run down New Gower as if they had a basilisk hot on their heels. Crisp autumn air digging into their skin, their hearts pounding, they don't stop until New Gower merges into Water and Water turns into Topsail. Harry leads them into a small alley between two houses, and they lean against opposite walls, panting, laughing.

"I … think … we've … phew … lost them." Harry flexes his right hand, groaning and giggling at the same time, knowing full well he looks like a fool. "Gosh, this bloody hurts!" He meets Riddle's eyes in the dimness, and they burst into laughter again. Riddle doesn't laugh like this very often. Seems that Harry smashing someone's nose for him really amuses him.

"The gallant … Mister Harry Potter," Riddle muses, still panting. "Defender of … my honour."

Harry straightens up. Riddle is half illuminated by the soft yellow glow from the street lamps. It's a quiet neighbourhood, the hustle bustle of the pubs blocks away. The former dark lord's looking at Harry in a way that makes the teen want to either grin stupidly or douse himself in fiendfyre.

"That was fun." Harry declares, looking down at his hand. The stinging has lessened. "Merlin knows I've wanted to try that since the time Hermione punched Malfoy!"

Riddle smirks at that. They stay silent for a moment, finally catching their breath.

"Were you really surprised?"

"Hmm?"

"What did you expect? Someone was bound to come out and say it - _mudblood_." Riddle says the last word in a peculiar voice, as if suddenly unfamiliar with the taste. "I'm running for mayor of Magical St. John's, a penniless foreigner with a name like _Tom Riddle_ , the muggle-loving Potters my main benefactors. Doesn't take much for them to latch onto that angle, yes?"

Harry almost replies that Riddle's merely having a taste of his own medicine, but sensibly bites it back. Fighting with Gillis is somewhat entertaining; fighting with Riddle never is.

"I was worried about - about how you'd react." He offers instead.

Riddle turns pensive. "Did you know that my housemates used to call me mudblood?"

Harry didn't know that. He never has comprehended how Voldemort rationalized his pureblood supremacy given his own blood status - mostly he chalked it off as the Dark Lord being conceited and delusional, as usual. They've never talked about it in the months that they've been civil with each other either. They've never brought up Voldemort's politics in general - it's a topic as taboo as the war and everything that came with it.

"I always believed I had magic in my blood, of course. But there was no way to be sure." Riddle continues. He does still enjoy long monologues, and keeps choosing the strangest occasion to deliver them. "For the longest time, I thought my father's side had magic. Because if my mother had been a witch, how could she have died a pauper?

"The Slytherins were quick to brand me as a mudblood, of course .. oh how _wrong_ they were! You can't imagine - the very first time I looked into that basilisk's ugly yellow eyes and _knew_ -"

"Didn't you know before?" Harry can't help but interject. He can only put up with a monologue for so long, as fascinating as this one is.

"Mostly, but not for sure - how could I? I couldn't possibly afford a lineage test at Gringotts. But the true heir of Slytherin commands the monster, and is able to look it in the eyes - all the books said so. That was my only sure fire way to know. So I snuck down to the Chamber and called upon the basilisk. With my eyes closed, I ordered it to look me in the face. Then I opened my eyes. "

Harry suddenly feels a chill down his back. "But what if -?"

"What if I was wrong? Well." Riddle chuckles. "Then I'd die. I was scared stiff, mind you. But I'd been obsessed with finding out my lineage for years, you see, and to believe I was the descendant of the purest of the pure … If I was wrong about that, then what was the point -" He cuts himself off, shaking his head. "I guess I thought if I'd made a mistake this stupid, I deserved to die for it."

"That's just stupid." Harry counters hotly.

"Yes, exactly -"

"No, I meant -" To think the need to prove he was somebody was worth dying over was stupid, is what he means. Or rather, feeling there's no point to life if he hasn't got Slytherin in his blood … But Harry doesn't know how to say it without setting Riddle off. What he wants to ask is whether Riddle still thinks any existence other than one as the Heir of Slytherin is not worth living, but that'll hit too close to home. That'll start a row, and Harry doesn't want a row right now, least of all against Tom.

"Never mind." He says quietly. "How old were you back then?"

"Fourteen?" Riddle narrows his eyes for a second, but lets it slide. "Can't be older than that. And I didn't die, however stupid that venture was, and just the moment itself was more than worth the risk. Then I took my most avid tormentors down to the Chamber, Malfoy, Black, Lestrange … Made them stand there with their eyes screwed shut while Hissy licked them on the forehead. Then I told them it was an honour, a ritual, and they were selected for it because they were the most powerful and most pure." There was a wry gleam in Riddle's eyes. "They followed me ever since. I could swear Malfoy pissed his pants."

Harry laughs. Any member of the Malfoy family, past or present, pissing themselves is not something Harry would begrudge anyone over. "Hold on - _Hissy_?"

Riddle stills for one second, then shakes himself out of it. His mirth, although still evident, seems strained somehow. "I named it 'Hissy'. For hissing a lot. It didn't like the name. Didn't like me either - could smell the muggle blood in me, it said."

"Well, I killed it back in second year." Harry offers tentatively. _Then I took its fang and slaughtered a piece of your soul_ , he doesn't add. No need to be crass.

"I can't say I'm greatly saddened." Riddle smirks. "It wasn't a nice creature, or a clever conversationalist. Its only concerns in life were eating and killing mudbloods."

The jibe's too good to pass up. "But wasn't it like that with half of your followers?" Harry gives a silly grin. Three months ago, he wouldn't have made that quip. Now he's more familiar with the things that would and the things that would not bring out Riddle's infamous temper. A surprisingly large collection of things belong in the latter category.

"Cheeky." Riddle mutters, sounding fully seventy years' old. Erin needs to work harder at converting his speech patterns to 1998 standards.

They fall silent for a while, until Harry asks the one question that he's been stewing in for weeks.

"Why are you running?"

"Why am I?"

"Why exactly are you running for office? Mayor of Magical St. John's - you never wanted a Ministry post, did you." Harry makes it more of a statement than a question. "Hell, if you had … They were pegging you for Minister, weren't they? Probably the youngest Minister in history. All the old families you already had at your whim, all the Slug Club connections you had … Instead you went on and …" He leaves the rest unsaid. "What is your endgame here, Tom?"

Riddle is silent for the longest time, staring down at his knees as he leans back against the wall.

"Would you leave it be if I told you I'm simply bored?" Riddle looks up finally, his expression impossible to read in the streetlight. Harry holds his gaze for a little while and sighs, pushing off of his wall.

"Let's go home - it's getting chilly."

Riddle agrees readily.

* * *

 **A/N: I haven't abandoned this story! And I even promise to have more than one chapter out this year cause I already have 18 mostly drafted. School is hell even when we're just three weeks in, but I wanted to get this done before the midterms kill me :P**

 **Meanwhile, reviews really keep me going? Let me know what you think!**


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